


Searching in the Dark

by artistfire13



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner, the maze runner
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Crime Fighting, Dark, Detective Newt, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Organized Crime, Slow Build, There will be fluff I swear, doctor Thomas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artistfire13/pseuds/artistfire13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Newt Isaacson was use to dealing the dark, darker, and darkest of New York's worst crime. Then after the start of the Maze Killings, everything fell apart. </p><p>Or, the crime/detective x doctor AU that never gets updated, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Six-months-later-note, I've noticed that my writing is super childish??? from chapters 1-11????? At least it is to me, so I'm sorry it's awful writing, hopefully my updates will get better :(
> 
> -Sami

It was dark.

That was the first thought Thomas had in the room.

The second was, where the fuck am I?

The third was, am I strapped to a chair?

As his head cleared, he soon was able to sense the gag in his mouth and rope that tied his hands behind his back and his feet to the legs of the chair. Disoriented, he tried to speak or call out but was unable to string words together. He lolled his head to the side, dizzy and disorientated as his brain felt heavy; just barely he was able to discern he had been drugged.

It was when he started struggling against his bonds did a door click and open, flooding the dark room with light. Thomas had to squint before his eyes adjusted and were able to make out the form in front of him.

He quickly accounted for his surroundings in a cursory glance. The windowless cell was small and seemed to be entirely made of concrete. The door was the only way in and out of the room and was made of metal, literally exactly like a prison door. He couldn't see behind him as his neck wouldn't reach that far. All that he could see was gray, gray, gray.

“ Hostage three ‘s awake, ‘oss,” a thickly accented voice called. Male, Thomas comprehended weakly, southern. Maybe five foot nine. Heavy set. 

“ Who are you?” Thomas managed with a rubbery tongue but through the cloth in his mouth, it only sounded like muffled groans. 

“Wouldncha like to know, pretty face, ” the man jeered, “whatcha need to know right now 's that we’ve captured y’all, you’re not getting rescued, and if you’re lucky, we might kill ya real fast witha bullet.”

Thomas blinked, trying hard to calm down and spit out the cloth in his mouth.

“ Having fun there?” the man taunted, “bet ya look like that when-”

A man approached the southern at the door, roughly shoving him back.

“What the hell are you doing, you son of a bitch !” a shout was heard from farther down the hall. The door to Thomas’s prison was shut again with barely a nod, excluding him from the action outside and enclosing him again in darkness.

Thomas wasn’t sure how long he was kept in the dark but he knew it was for a very long time. When he began to feel thirsty, he estimated he had been captured for about twelve hours. When he began to feel lightheaded, he reasoned he had been kept without water for nearly eighteen hours. The first time he blacked out, he guessed twenty-four hours and eventually by thirty hours, he worried that they would leave him in the sweltering dark room to die of dehydration.

Thomas was a doctor. He knew how the human body worked and he also knew that another few hours without water in the room, even his well-kept fit body would shut down and send him back into unconscious. And he couldn't be sure if he would wake up again.

Thomas’s mouth felt like sandpaper, as he had been able to work out the cloth hours ago, and his eyes were bloodshot. The hunger pains had subdued to low rumbles, making him feel weak and exhausted, though he realized it was the least of his concerns. The dark and weakness and fear only fueled his paranoia, that the nearest shadow was a gun and the little leak on the roof was a tap to flood and drown him in the room. It was kind of pathetic and childish, like 'the monster under the bed' or 'the boogeyman in the closet' just much worse than a childhood nightmare.

Then the door opened.

Thomas couldn’t help but say something. It was him and his big mouth, he didn’t know when to shut up.

“ Fucking Christ, finally,” he snapped, his voice raspy from his dry throat, “for whatever reason you brought me here, I won’t be any good dead.”

The man at the door was not the southerner, Thomas could tell from the shorter stature and leaner build. He laughed lowly and then stepped deeper into the room. From the one step, Thomas felt colder, like a chill draft had swept over him in the frightfully hot room. Instead of being refreshing however, it was agitating; a nagging in the back of Thomas's head screaming danger.

“ You’re our doctor aren’t you?” he asked. His voice, noted Thomas, was nothing like the other man's. It could have been classified deep, silky, and seductive; maybe in a different scenario. But to Thomas it was slick, slimy and made him feel sick. “The entire city is going crazy looking for you. Thomas Greene. ‘The Best Neurosurgeon of 2013.’”  
Thomas’s head spun and felt hot and angry as his name slipped off the man’s tongue.

“Stop playing dumb with me, you know who the fuck I am. What do you want from me? ” he spat out. He desperately wanted water but he needed answers more. 

The man traced the grooves in the gray walls, which Thomas realized were made of brick.

“Are you in any sort of pain Thomas?” he asked, instead of answering Thomas's question, “the ropes digging into your skin?”   
“What?”

“Sorry about the long wait for room service,” he drawled, sounding distant and off-hinged, like his mind had left the conversation. The change from the man who had walked into the room five seconds ago to the man now asking Thomas how is accommodations were was so quick Thomas hadn't noticed it. Thomas's spine trickled with desperation.

“Alright man, I don't know who the hell you are, but really, just let me go, I can get you anything you want, money? Fame? Or-”

Thomas's voice faltered from the true disappointment on the man's face.

“I don't want those things Thomas,” he said sadly, like Thomas had failed a particularly important test. “I want you. And Chancellor says I can have you.”

Thomas's head was spinning. Everything was going too fast, he was too thirsty, everything was darkening.

“ What?”

The man sighed, and from the motions he made with his body, Thomas suspected he had rolled his eyes. It was hard to tell from the low lighting.

“You're obviously tired,” he said with resignation, “I'll have some nourishment sent in-”  
“Bullshit-”

“ I think we’re going to get along Thomas,” he continued, acting as if Thomas hadn't interrupted, “it helps that you look oh-so fuckable tied up in that chair.”  
Thomas visibly paled but refused to show the man he was fazed by the comment. He laughed again anyway, telling Thomas he had failed. 

The man ventured to the door, his back to Thomas. He only looked back when he paused before he left.

“ You’re wondering who I am aren’t you?” he asked. 

The thought had crossed Thomas’s mind but he didn’t acknowledge weather he had or not.

“ Call me Wicked,” he said anyway, flashing a white teeth grin before turning and leaving Thomas alone with his head spinning, completely confused and bewildered by the man, trying to file the man to a single personality. 

It was very, very dark.

+++  
“You've got a case,” a knock at his door told him.

Newt sighed and leaned back into his chair, beckoning the girl to come forward.

“When do I never?” he joked half-heartedly, “what is it this time?”

“Twenty-nine year old Thomas Greene, world renowned neurosurgeon, kidnapped here in New York City approximately eight to ten hours ago but the time stamp is really unclear,” Sonya said, a startling thing file in her hands.

“This is going to be one of those cases where the media is breathing down my neck, isn't it?” he groaned. Sonya shrugged her shoulders sympathetically, brushing her long blond hair back.

“They want the best to find the best,” she tried. Newt tried not to roll his eyes, Sonya didn't deserve it.

“Alright. Hand me the file, I'll get started on reading the background. Tell Alby and Minho to meet me with the rest of the profiling team to get a perspective of whoever did it and where to find the man. Might as well start big. The sooner this is over, the better.”  
Sonya nodded, sliding the folder in her hand in front of him on his desk, then turned. Her heels thumped softly and briskly against the light brown carpet of Newt's office and the click of the glossy, wooden door signaled her exit.

Newt slumped and sighed again. He always ended up getting the kidnappings, especially ever since the Donner case. He frowned, like he usually did when he recalled the Donner case, infamously named after the Donner Party from the 1800's by the media during those horrible few months. It had been a simple case at first, a normal kidnapping. The unsub had captured seven men and women from the streets over the course of two weeks and during the desperate attempts of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to find him (profilers were sure it was a him), he suddenly disappeared from the radar.

Leading the investigation, Newt had drowned himself in trying to find the victims. Eventually he did find them. The head of the FBI formally thanked him, the media labelled him a hero, and he was considered one of the best detectives the government had to offer but only Minho and Alby knew what it was like during those months. What really happened.

Newt opened the file, which was startling thin. He was one of those agents who had to live in the scene, be the victim, be the unsub. He did this by gaining background and inspecting the scene, which was currently unavailable and apparantly unknown.

So the very little history in the file gave Newt just as little hope.

Dr. Thomas Greene was a Johns Hopkins graduate with honors. He had been accepted into the college through a scholarship and there was little youth background as he stayed off the radar in a small town somewhere in Kansas for most of his childhood. From what Newt could see, he had been a genius but had chosen not to keep the spotlight.

At Johns Hopkins, he had completed a full medical course and then received a PhD in Neurology. Right out of college, he had entered the Neurology department in New York-Presbyterian Hospital with an excellent repertoire and near perfect performance rates in practically any sort of neurosurgery, which was extremely extraordinary and borderline unbelievable.

He lived in an upscale apartment in upper Manhattan which was a slight commute for a doctor but apparantly fine for Dr. Greene. He had no close friendships with or without colleagues, no living family besides his twin sister who lived in Seattle and worked as a lawyer, and had zero or creditably obtained information about relationships. Newt didn't even know his sexual orientation.

Newt groaned and rubbed his face. There was no record of where Thomas had been kidnapped as his habits were not accounted by any of his neighbors or friends. They didn't even know the time but they had estimated eight to ten hours from the given hour, around five pm at twilight. With such little information, Newt would have to visit Thomas's flat to get a feel for the man's personality. Meanwhile, he and the profiling team would have to start from scratch.

+++

“Twenty-nine year old male, caucasian, exactly five feet ten inches with dark brown hair and brown eyes.” Newt clicked the pointer that changed the slide on the TV, “according to reporting sources, he was kidnapped around eight to ten hours ago. He left work after his shift ended at 10 am and didn't arrive back at the hospital for a scheduled surgery the next day. When the hospital tried to contact him, there was no answer and after two hours they called the police. Nearly right after, they called the Bureau when they suspected terrorism.”

The group of four before him were sitting at the long glass table in the conference room they collected in for cases. They had already read most of the facts beforehand but Newt always presented beforehand anyway for discussion.

“Why'd they suspect terrorism?” Minho asked. He was relaxing on his chair with his feet on the table, seemingly inattentive but Newt was perfectly aware if someone busted into the room with a shotgun, Minho would be the first on the man.

To answer Minho's question, Newt brought up an evidence photo filed away.

“God, that's completely sick,” Alby muttered to himself, blinking. The various looks of disapproval and disgust on the other three implied they agreed.

The corpse was at least a few months old. Newt had learned a few moments before the meeting and conjectured that it was exhumed from a grave in some cemetery far from the city and the blood was from a different person, most probably stolen from a blood bank. The body, or whatever was left of it, was hacked to pieces, arranged in a bizarre and unsettling form. The blood splattering the area was still drying when the officials had found the scene and taken pictures. What was different was the figure drawn in blood on the wall behind the corpse, a strange maze-like design with the words, “We've waited long enough.” Run through some systems with the wonder of technology, it had taken less than fifteen minutes for the local police department to match the symbol with a similar symbol used by a terrorist group from the 1990's who had not made an appearance for a long time.

“Terrorist group, alright then,” Gally swallowed, “any idea who they are or what they want?”

“Maze,” Newt continued, “Maze is the terrorist group the symbol matched with and has not been in our vision for nearly twenty-five years. We're not even sure if it is Maze because they have had no form of communication and kidnapping a doctor, no matter how famous he is, is hardly a threat to the nation.”

“So we've got nothing. We can't even connect Greene's kidnapping to... this,” Aris, waved at the screen vaguely. Newt ran his hand through his hair then straightened, initiating command.

“I'm going to go by Thomas Greene's apartment after this to get a feel for his habits and profile. I want Gally and Aris to go and hold interviews with Greene's colleagues and acquaintances and I want Minho and Alby to go by the local police department and go through any original evidence that may have been forgotten. We're going to forget this terrorism idea and treat this like a normal kidnapping. Not a word of this leaves this room unless it's okayed by me. The minute the media get's a hold of the mere idea of a potential terrorist, Dr. Thomas Greene will never be found. You're all dismissed.”

+++

 


	2. Chapter 2

After Wicked, as he had been told to call him, left, the southern man entered again, a set scowl present on his face. He was silent as he entered, a tray in his hand which he set aside to go over to Thomas. Thomas sighed in relief as he was untied from the chair, blood rushing to his hands and feet as the rope was cut away. He rubbed his wrists and said a compulsory thank you before realizing who had done it for him.

The man didn't say anything or give a notion that he had heard Thomas. In fact, Thomas hadn't heard the man make a noise since he entered Thomas's prison.

“So who are you?” Thomas tried, raising an eyebrow. He noticed, wincing, the rope hadn't seemed too painful but had been tied tight enough to draw blood from his wrists.

The man gave him a disbelieving look as if he was asking him, _'are you really this stupid or do you think I'm stupid enough to answer that question.'_ Thomas had honestly been hoping for the latter but he wasn't about to tell that to South, as Thomas had started calling him in his head. 

South shoved the tray he had brought with him at Thomas, which obviously intended to be his first meal at his captor's. Wicked apparantly had been kidding when he said he wanted Thomas to be comfortable, or at least to an extent, and had provided the bare minimum of a container of butter and a roll of hard, stale bread. There was, however, a large jug of water which Thomas took by his hands and drank in less than a minute, his parched throat and lips soothed with the lukewarm water.

Thomas regretted drinking that fast about ten seconds later as his empty stomach threatened to retch up the liquid but he ate the bread quickly but slower than the water to keep it down. South, stood passively waiting for him to finish, not teasing or leering as he had been, what, two days ago? Thomas guessed he had been kidnapped for about forty eight hours, but from the amount of disorientation he was feeling, it could have been a week, it could have been twelve hours.

When Thomas finished, South gathering the jug and tray, along with the paper plate the bread had been brought on. Sensing his audience was leaving, Thomas stuttered a rain of questions before the man left.

“Wait, no, don't leave me here, what am I doing here? Who was that man who came in? Why have you captured me,  _who has-”_ Thomas said quickly, getting up and then falling down as his vision nearly blacked out completely. South used the moment to get up from the ground and speed out of the cell, closing and locking Thomas back in the darkness hurriedly and uncommonly unprofessional as Thomas had noticed. When Thomas got up slower so the blood would be able to circulate better after sitting down for so long, the room was empty and he was alone. 

Frustrated, he growled then sighed. If he was going to get out anytime soon, he would have to start trying to escape now. Cautiously in the dark, Thomas reached for the walls, his fingers outstretched as he felt around. When his hand reached the cooler brick wall, he continued against it, running his hands as far as he could into every nook and crank, trying to find any means of a weak spot or outer ridge leading to a hidden entrance.

Thomas, as he had expected, found none.

Rising desperation led Thomas to feel hotter, sweating as he picked up his pace, tracing faster and faster. So when his foot knocked into a metal bed frame as he neared what he thought was a corner, he muttered string of colorful curses, tripping and falling to the rough concrete floor. Wincing, he sat up, feeling around his knees for scrapes and cuts. There seemed to be a little blood, even through the admittedly tattered Levi's. Thomas rolled up the pant legs, letting the laceration feel the air and so that the jeans wouldn't run against the wound, wishing he had some way to clean it. The need and inability to treat his injury the best he could was making his skin crawl, only adding to his fear and desperation to near a level of hysteria.

Silently still swearing, he scooted a little closer to the bed, feeling around in the dark. It was a twin sized, as far as he could tell, with a single mattress and no sheets or pillows. Thomas assumed it was because they had considered the possibility that he would try to kill himself. A little more guesswork, he realized the bed was bolted to the wall and floor, prohibiting the ability to move it and break off a leg to use as a weapon. Thomas grudgingly had to give it to them; they knew what they were doing.

He finally did give up, looking for a way out and flopped down on the bed. It was only about six inches from the floor anyway and he laid down, suddenly tired from the long ordeal. Thomas wondered if anyone was looking for him, if anyone had even noticed he was gone. They probably noticed when I didn't show up for the Johnston surgery, Thomas thought bitterly, but then felt guilty.

Eric Johnston, a forty one year old man with a brain tumor pressing on his pituitary gland causing major thymus and organ dysfunction. He really needed that surgery and Thomas felt as if he had failed him a little. Then he realized that Mr. Johnston having to wait for another couple hours for a different neurosurgeon to preform the same surgery was not really equally comparable with being drugged and kidnapped by an organized crime organization apparantly run by a bipolar sociopath.

_+++_

The landowner of the building Thomas Greene lived into unlocked the door for Newt. He already had sterile gloves, a habit more than a necessity because he didn't expect to find any evidence here. Cautiously, Newt entered the apartment, the landowner hanging behind a little, nervous and unsure.

The sunken living room greeted Newt when he stepped inside. It was sparsely furnished, with dark cherry wood for floors and alternating red and beige walls. Newt went down the two steps around the perimeter of the space with a white carpet rug. A well-worn but well kept black couch faced a flatscreen TV on the left wall from the door and a simple glass table without any décor was in front of it. From there, there was an upgraded kitchen, sleek, shiny, with clean cabinets and black granite counters. There was no dining table, it seemed Greene ate, if he ever did at home which Newt doubted, at the bar island in the kitchen which had stools for dining convince. From the spacious and somewhat empty living room, a glass door led to a balcony outside on the tenth floor of the building and a short half-hallway with three doors to the right of the front entrance.  
It was stylish. It was modern. It looked like a model home.

Thomas Greene did not spend a lot of time here.

When Newt entered the first bedroom, it very obviously appeared to him that it was Thomas's bedroom. Unlike the spotless entertainment and kitchen area, the bedroom seemed a little more lived in. The dark wood bed with a bedside table was set aside to the room in the corner next to the large windows, bordered with dark blue curtains. The bed was done but messily, and a pair of gray pajama pants were thrown aside on the blue covers, obviously from the previous morning. The room here had cream colored carpet with light blue walls. There was not much besides the master bathroom and a full sized mirror but the framed pictures along the left side of the room were what interested Newt. There were twelve different-sized pictures, arranged in a crossing pattern.

The first he saw was of a fit teenager with bright brown baby deer eyes and a cheeky smile, obviously Thomas, with his arm slung on the shoulders of the other teenage girl his age next to him. She was gorgeous, to say the least, with bright blue eyes and all curves but the same dark brown hair Thomas had. Newt deduced the girl was Teresa, Thomas's twin sister who was flying in from Seattle in a couple of hours. The next was of Thomas in a graduation robe, still in his teenage years, so high school, accepting his diploma. Newt realized that it wasn't his parents who were in front of the crowd cheering him on, but Teresa.

Good relationship with sister, Newt noted, probably stronger for a different reason. Good motivator for an organized crime group, especially with history of torture like in Maze. When Teresa came down to New York, Newt would have to figure out how to keep her under watch, because it was better safe than sorry.

Another picture he noticed from Thomas's high school years was of him abashedly accepting a gold medal. The sign in the background was barely discernible from the low quality photo but Newt was able to read, “19 th Annual Track and Field Meet.” He was a runner, at least back when he was a teen. Until the police could find the exact place Thomas was captured, the profilers couldn't do anything about figuring out the unsub from the struggle or area but Newt supposed that they had cornered him and taken him by extreme force, drugged him, or both because the minute Dr. Thomas Greene sensed danger, he would have bolted. 

From the twelve pictures, there was only one picture of Thomas, Teresa, and their parents. The two of them appeared young, maybe around five. They were embraced by the two adults in a candid picture of them playing. It was a picture that was taken care of, though a little torn at the edge implying a long history.

Newt pieced together Thomas's family history in his head quickly, though he could have just easily gone to the station and gone through records or have just merely asked Teresa when she arrived. They had lost both their parents at a young age with just fading good memories and most probably raised in the foster system together somehow by luck because a family eager to take on twins is always rare. Newt began over-thinking. On the surface, there was no apparent reason why Thomas would be kidnapped. But now with two mysterious parents with no background who died at a young age, could vengeance for something the parents be a motive? Then why not take Teresa as well?  
Newt stepped away from the wall, scowling. Coming to Thomas's flat hardly answered any questions and didn't help much in figuring out where he was being kept.

Newt's thought process was interrupted by the persisting ringing of his cellphone. Reaching into his pocket, he accepted the call, barely registering it was an unknown caller.

“Isaacson,” he said briskly, stepping back from the wall, as he continued to scrutinize the pictures.

“Hello Agent Isaacson,” a mellow, detached, and somehow unsettling voice replied, “I've wanted to get in touch, but Thomas had to be fully disorientated first, just in case. We always do that with our treasured guests.”

Newt froze.

“Who is this?” he asked warily and cold.

“I am Maze. Maze is me. We are all part of the Maze, one way or the other. Even you, Newt. Or should I call you James? That was your name wasn't it? Before you lost your mother-”

“Stop,” Newt interrupted. His blood chilled when he heard his previous name be mentioned, disturbed and frightened when the history he had kept secret for so long flow out of the speaker's voice nearly effortlessly, like it was everyday small talk. He refused to let it show in his voice; he was good at that, keeping his emotions and reactions locked in a box. He was aware the call was being recorded, not only by the police station but on the side of Maze, if they were as intelligent as Newt suspected they were. “Where is Dr. Thomas Greene?”

“He's... being taking care of. One of my colleagues has taken a special liking to him. He was quite eager to take him in. Something about old unfinished history.”

“Who is this?” again demanded Newt. He heard train beep and rattle as it came to a full stop, a familiar sound in New York. The suspect (Newt thought it was female with a deeper voice) was in the subway, Newt realized, they were using a payphone.

“I promise you Newt,” the voice said easily, “that's not important. What's important is Thomas. And to be honest, he's not that important either. He's perfectly dispensable-”

“Then if he is of no use to you, then give him back to us,” Newt tried placating, knowing it wouldn't help but was worth a shot, “what do you want? What do you want of him?”

“You and I both know we can't just give back Thomas. Maybe I am under-appreciating his role in our plans. He is an important game piece in this race we've started. All we've want to help the world Agent Issacson. We want to help everyone. Soon you all will understand. In fact, the only thing I regret is that Thomas won't be alive long enough to know what his purpose was.”

“Listen to me, I will get Thomas Greene back, they are tracking your location down right this second-”

“Please don't lie to me Agent Isaacson. It's hard to track down a phone signal in the middle of a bedroom, especially a bedroom of man as un-savvy in technology as Thomas, bless his soul.”

Newt's heart stopped and he whipped his head around, looking for some sort of give away.

“I hope to speak to you soon Agent Isaacson,” Maze said to him silky, “like I said, I hadn't intended on waiting for nearly thirty six hours but as they say, life happens.”  
Newt protested, when the line cut off leaving him with a buzzing in his ear, standing in the middle of a light blue bedroom with cream carpet and a spy camera.

+++


	3. Chapter 3

The creaking of the rusty metal hinges where what made Thomas open his eyes wearily. After the few incoherent moments of deep sleep faded away and he realized where he was, he bolted up, suddenly wide awake.

The man, Wicked, was leaning against the doorway of the room, looking all too comfortable in his own skin.

“Good morning Thomas,” he practically purred, “I hope you had a restful sleep.”

Thomas refused to say anything, instead frowning and narrowing his eyes.

Wicked sighed and he entered the room fully, not closing the door so light would filter into the room.

“If you're not going to act like a child,” he said like it caused him so much effort, “I would like you to come with me.”  
The man waited, knowing he would get an answer eventually to that. Blinking, Thomas looked at him blankly his mind racing trying to figure out how he could make this help his situation.

Wicked obviously had the upper-hand in his position. He had no idea what he wanted from him or what he was there to do. He didn't even know where he was or where Wicked wanted to take him. There was no guarantee he could bolt for it when he left the room and there was almost a complete guarantee that he would forced to go where ever Wicked wanted him if he refused to leave the room.

Warily, he stepped and stood up curiously. Encouragingly, Wicked gestured to the door, evidently pleased Thomas had chosen to cooperate. To what, he did not know.  
When he was out of the door in the well-light, white hallway, Wicked closed the door of his prison and made his way in front of Thomas, walking forward intending Thomas to follow.

As the prisoner and captor walked down the hallway, Thomas looked around. The hallway was white, completely white with a sickening sterile feeling like a laboratory or morgue. It sectioned off to more hallways, Wicked turning left and right until Thomas could barely discern the last turn they had taken in the maze. Finally, they reached the end of a hallway with a door, which Wicked opened for Thomas.

Once inside, Thomas had the urge to throw up.

There were nearly a hundred cages everywhere in the warehouse-large room, smelling of body odor desperately and mostly covered up with disinfectant. And in each cage, there were human beings, of every age, gender, and race, each one with their hair shaved off and numbers on their arms. Most wore plain hospital gowns but a few were in just under apparel and Thomas looked in horror as he realized why.

Half of the captives were in what looked like to be unimaginable pain, with burn-like wounds in their skin, blistering and some area dark and burnt like what Thomas had seen in the ER for third-degree burns. The ones closer to Thomas were not in as bad of a physical shape as others but a few were mumbling to themselves, a wide and crazed look to their eyes. A few were laughing for a reason known to only themselves. Thomas could see one or two who seemed to be completely normal but just very scared. Scared and watching their every move.

Thomas stumbled.

“Don't worry, darling,” Wicked said unfazed in what he probably thought was a soothing voice, “we're just going to continue on to the end.”

“These are human beings,” Thomas spat out, “and you're what, testing on them? Jesus fucking Christ that kid can't be more than six years old. Why the hell have you brought me here?”

Wicked continued to walk briskly across, not heeding Thomas's comments. Reluctantly, Thomas followed.

The hallway after the warehouse was different from the maze Thomas had walked outside of his prison. This one had rich red carpet and carmel wallpaper, looking more like a luxury hotel than an institution of illegal human testing. They were in this hallway for a much shorter time, taking just a single left before entering a room. Expecting a stark white lab with a hospital bed with harnesses and restraints, he was surprised to find it was a well-furnished bedroom, with a kingsized bedroom with drapes in the middle. Thomas turned to face Wicked just as he closed the door, secluding them in the lowly-lit room.

One look at the predatory expression on the man's face was all Thomas needed to realize what was going on, causing him to step back. Wicked stepped forward.

“You really are beautiful you know,” he mumbled, reaching for Thomas, making him feel sick. Before he could get out of his reach, Wicked grabbed him and pushed him against the door. Panic starting to rise without telling it to, he grappled for the doorknob, finding it locked. Wicked was closer now, crowding around him, trapping him, and stupid Thomas, stupid, stupid, he couldn't move. He was frozen and Wicked took it as a sign of consent.

He smelled a whiff of cinnamon off of Wicked and felt his breath on his face. Wicked stroked his face with one cool finger and Thomas twitched away from the action. Frowning, Wicked grabbed his face, making Thomas protest and forced his lips onto him. Thomas began to push away from Wicked, trying to force himself out of his arms, but Wicked held him tighter. Wicked's kiss was sickly and pale, wet and gross. His hand was holding Thomas's head in place to an almost painful extent.

“Let go,” Thomas demanded reaching up at Wicked's arm. Wicked shoved it away and grabbed his hair, pulling it causing Thomas to cry out.

“You don't get to order me around,” he growled in his ear, “you're going to let me do what I want. To repent for what your parents did. Your parents, the _traitors.”_

He bit into the skin under Thomas's skin, making him shout, in pain, and dazing him from questioning.

His mind became sharper as Wicked tore off his shirt and started working on his jeans.

“Please,” Thomas tried, as Wicked marked his way down his chest, “help!”  
Wicked finally did get his jeans down, even through Thomas's fighting, and started undressing himself, holding Thomas back with one of his arms.

“No one's gonna hear you Thomas,” he grinned, slightly maniacally, “I've got you all to myself.”

He slipped a hand into Thomas's boxers and took Thomas limply with his hand before pulling off his underwear. Heat flushed to Thomas's face, humiliated and frantically trying to get away.

“Gorgeous, you know, and all mine,” Wicked praised, making Thomas want to cry.

“Please, don't do this,” Thomas finally resorted to begging. His voice hitched as Wicked's hand found his way behind him, “please!”

Wicked paused, and for a moment Thomas thought it had worked, that he would stop, when instead Wicked shoved Thomas away from the door, manhandling him to the bed. Yelping, Thomas was thrown underneath him on the inappropriately soft and clean covers. He cried out when he felt an intruding finger, none too gentle.

“Still mine,” Wicked murmured, working another finger which had somehow been lubed into him. Thomas arched away from him, sharp pangs of pain traveling up and down his body. Before Thomas could do anything, Wicked withdrew his hand and position himself accordingly. Thomas sobbed as he entered him, the stretch too much with too little preparation.

Thomas ceased struggling as Wicked pounded into him, instead resorting to half-broken sobs. When Wicked finished and emptied himself in Thomas, he left him on the bed, messy and aching. Checking a watch, he cleaned himself off almost business like, dressing into his clothes again. Before leaving, he turned back and smirked at Thomas.

“See you later,” he sang teasingly before closing the door, leaving Thomas broken.

+++

Newt flew into the conference room in blazing fury. Minho, Aris, Gally, Alby, Sonya, and Harriet, their media consultant, were all waiting for him. Good, he thought bitterly, I can give them all a piece of my mind at once.

“Newt-” Minho started, rising from his seat, “we-”

“Eight to ten hours,” Newt interrupted him in a low and dangerous voice, trying to bottle the penting violent anger, “the file said eight to ten hours. Fucking Christ, how did you fuck this up so bad? Greene hasn't been kidnapped for eight hours. He's been kidnapped for _thirty five!”_

The room fell silent.

“Newt,” Sonya began. Newt had to give her credit, her voice didn't quiver at all though her fingers did, “what are you talking about?”

“They called me. Jesus fucking Christ they have my telephone number. They probably have all of our private information. They called me though, through a public telephone. My telephone's recorded the conversation we had but Thomas Greene is far more screwed than we thought.”

A jolt carried through the room.

“What do you mean they called you?” Alby almost shouted.

“Here, hold on,” Newt motioned him to sit down, as he had half risen out of his chair. Taking one of the wires in the corner with the computer, Newt plugged in his phone. It was slightly awkward having all of his private conversations recorded but it was moment's like these where it was helpful.

As Newt played the conversation back for the group, varying levels of worry appeared on their faces.

“What the fuck?” Gally said finally, in a very sophisticated manner.

“Okay, okay, so slow down,” Aris motioned, “this, that was obviously Maze. The leader most probably. And, alright, so they've been planning this for a while, this plan. And Thomas is a huge part of it, whatever it is. But what I don't understand is-”

“What was the point of the call?” Minho interrupted. He was up from his chair now, and leaning against the table with his arms crossed. “They, sounded like a she, didn't it? But  _she_ didn't make any demands. Didn't make any type of ransom. It wasn't even a proper power play; only pulled out a few guns.”  
He easily step-sided the issue of them knowing Newt's real name and didn't mention it, but Newt was perfectly aware that they were thinking about it.

“I think it was a distraction,” Alby offered, “something else is happening, and we needed to focus on Thomas instead of whatever it is.”  
“That's awfully broad and doesn't help much,” Gally inputed just as unhelpfully, “but it's a start.”

“Question is, what's so important they need to distract us from it.”

A knock on the door told them they had a visitor.

“Hey guys, sorry to bother you,” Harriet said, with an annoyed expression on her face that was carefully schooled into professionalism, “Teresa Greene just came. And ah, understandably, she's not that happy.”

+++

Teresa Greene was slender, all curves, and tall in her heeled shoes, radiating confidence in her stubborn with-held position. Her pale skin, which seemed a little gray from worry, was still flawless, and her black hair was messily brushed, probably in an airport bathroom.

She was still beautiful.

“Are you Agent Isaacson, the detective in charge of my brother's case?” she demanded when she caught sight of them.

Newt cleared his throat, holding out his hand.

“I am. You must be Teresa Greene. I promise you, we are doing everything we can to find your brother. We were just trying to figure out what a new piece of evidence we found a few moments ago means when you arrived. You are welcome to join us as the case lawyer, though I do not recommend it.”

Newt was going to tell her not to worry and that they would find her brother when she looked him in the eye like she knew what he was going to say next was bullshit and so he kept his mouth shut.

Teresa breathed in heavily and blinked, nodding to him or herself, Newt didn't know.

“I'm aware of the emotional bias it would cause for me to be on the case but if the offer stands, I'll take it,” she said curtly. She still looked angry. She probably knew she looked angry, Newt thought.

As if reading his mind, which surprised Newt because he wasn't an easy book to read, she sighed, deflating from her demanding and professional profile a little.

“Look, I know you're all doing everything you can to help me, and I have no right to be angry, but I just have to be angry at someone, someone who fucked something up, fucked something up so bad my brother's captured by some lunatics that our parents tried to warn us about but we laughed, jesus christ, we laughed, and now my parents are dead and Thomas is kidnapped by a raving rapist and I can't-,” she rushed out, going a million words a minute.

“What?” Newt asked sharply, grabbing Teresa's arms which had gone up to run through her hair in desperation, “what did you say?” Teresa's arms fought against Newt's strong hold but he didn't intend to let her go.

“I-I said a lot. I have a lot to say,” she admitted, “it would probably be better if you were sitting down.”

Newt had led Teresa briskly back to the conference room, where the rest of the team was waiting. When Teresa walked into the room, Minho widened his eyes. You could practically hear the non-existent wolf-whistle.

“Hot damn girl, you can't be Greene's twin sister, no way-” he had started when Newt snapped.

“Now is not the fucking time for you to get a new notch on your bed Minho,” he growled, impatience radiating from him. The team backed away slightly, perfectly aware and a little afraid of a frustrated Newt. He turned to Teresa, who was clearly confused and just as afraid as the others.

“Talk.”

She sank into the nearest chair, next to Sonya, and clasped her hands. The rubbing of her fingers were the only sign of anxiety she had.

“First thing you should know is that Thomas never had anything to do with this. He-it's my fault. All of this. I thought I could keep him from-” she took a breath, “from whatever this is.”  
Newt did not prompt her.

“Thomas doesn't know anything about Maze.  _I_ don't know anything about Maze. In fact, the only thing I do know from Maze is that there was a man, a man my parents were terrified of and had left Maze for it. And then they died.”  
Alby opened his mouth to pose a question but Newt motioned for him to stay quiet.

“This man, he's, he's disgusting, from what I heard. From what I've seen-”

“You've met the man?” Aris asked, sharply. Newt hadn't intended this to turn into an interrogation but he wasn't surprised that it had.

Teresa nodded, and for the first time, she looked low and miserable. Her proud shoulders were down and dropping.

“When we were young, maybe when we were twelve or something. He, God, he was completely sick. He had a record, of raping children or at least the acquisition, but I don't know, he wasn't in jail and, I'm just so terrified of what he's going to do to Thomas, this is all my fault! I'm such a fucking hypocrite, trying to get angry at someone else, this is all on me I just-”

“Alright, Teresa,” Sonya, placing a hand gently on her shoulder, “how about you just finish up whatever you were telling us, because I'm sure it'll help with the case, and then we can go get a coffee afterwards, hmm? Just breathe with me, it'll help.”

Teresa nodded, and calmed down quickly.

“He liked Thomas, a lot. I'm sure he's the one who kidnapped him, or is at least keeping him right now. I haven't got a last name, my parents just used to call him,  _Wicked?_ I'm trying to remember but it was years ago.”

“Thank you Teresa,” Newt finally said, “now why do you think this is your fault?”

Teresa looked down at her hands. He noticed that her ring finger had a band of pale, untanned skin. He wondered about her history but he could figure out that part later.

“It was for an old case, nearly five years ago. I ran into Maze, Maze Inc. or something, for a lawsuit filed against them. They were being sued for something, it was about the mass ordering of a certain chemical or compound um, uh,” she paused thinking hard, “affects the brain a whole lot, used in psychotherapy drugs all the time. Anyway, I won the case, it was fairly easy, especially with the amount of evidence Maze was able to put together. But then I got cocky, and started to poke around, trying to figure out what they were doing and,” she shuddered, “I didn't find much, but it's all pretty dark research. Not, not Nazi bad, I don't think, I would hope not, but all, all pretty bad.”

“Then what happened?”  
“They found out, of course. Threatened me, threatened to kill me actually, if I didn't keep quiet, threatened to kill Thomas cause he's the only family I've got left. And now, they've decided to just take him anyway,” Teresa rubbed her eyes.

Newt hummed, and shook his head.

“We have reason to believe Maze has been planning on kidnapping Thomas for a long time for a different purpose, though we have no idea why. It is not your fault, I promise you. Thank you for your help, and I'm sorry for the aggressiveness I may have shown you earlier. We'll contact you when we've got an idea of what's happening, you should get a hotel or figure out of you can stay at Thomas's place. Sonya will help you.” Sonya got up immediately, helping Teresa up as well, who looked very, very small after her confession of five years.

“Thank you,” she said, straightening her back a little, “please, just find my brother.”  
Sonya and Teresa promptly went out the door, closing it behind them and leaving Newt and the other men behind.

“You think she was telling the truth?” Gally asked.

“I know she was telling the truth. Even a lawyer can't lie that well. Now it's just what the fuck do we do now? What does this all mean? What is Maze even  _doing_ ?”

They heard a knock and Newt mentally swore because obviously his day could only get worse. 

Harriet was at the door again, with a phone in her hand a carefully blank expression. Newt rubbed his face, and tiredly asked what had happened because how the hell could this mess get any messier?

“Six more civilians have been reported missing. One, one came up dead.”

+++


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas blinked as he slowly woke up, feeling pain ache throughout his body. He winced as he moved, keeping a sob down. No one seemed to have returned after Wicked left. Thomas seemed to have drifted to sleep eventually at one point. Ashamed, he quickly tracked down his clothing, ignoring the sharp burn every time he moved. Once dressed, he felt a little more decent but the filth he felt was a skin deep. He felt sick, and dirty, and abused.

He moved away from the bed, trying to keep away from the stench of sex and went to the door, to try it and unsurprisingly find it locked. Eventually, he settled into a corner closer to the door, huddling in a ball. The room was just as plain as his cell when Thomas looked at it, besides the bed. The walls had been painted a deep red with intricate white borders implying sophistication, the carpet was a darker red and the headboard and footboard-deprived bed has matching bed covers. Other than that, the room was practically empty. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas did notice a single dresser with two drawers against the west wall. Hesitantly, but curiously, he checked around, fully expecting a video camera to be somewhere in the room, and went to the dresser anyway. Curiously he opened the top drawer.

The moment he set his eyes on the inside, he gasped, forcibly shoving it shut. He lost his breath, gasping again and dry heaving on his knees. Curled up within himself, Thomas blinked and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the images in his eyes.

Inside, disembowelled limbs were preserved and piled high, though that wasn't why Thomas was horriffed. On top of the pile, a severed, bloodied head rested, permanently saved in an expression of tortured pain, with clear and apparent holes and burns scattered among the face. The eyes were stapled open, glassy and milky but wide in fear. Eyes that were so incredibly like Thomas's eyes. 

Thomas heaved again.

+++

The door swung open and Thomas scurried to the wall, fearful. When he realized it wasn't Wicked who had entered.

“Thomas?” the girl at the door asked, tiptoeing into the room like a mouse.

Warily, he rose from the floor. He found out yesterday he couldn't fight Wicked on his own but the small, petite girl standing at the door, he was sure he could handle.  
The girl seemed to realize what he was thinking and beamed.

“There are armed guards at the door behind me and if you try and make a bold one, they'll shoot you down no questions asked.”

Ah. Alright.

“I'm Brenda,” she pronounced slowly like she was speaking to a particularly dense small animal. Thomas frowned, his liking for the girl diminishing quicker and quicker. Though it was pretty low anyway. “I'm going to help you.”

Thomas scoffed, rolling his eyes. Brenda scowled, the wide open expression she probably thought looked caring vanishing.

“Fine. Don't believe me. I can just leave you here for Wicked so he can fuck you whenever he pleases.”  
Thomas's face flickered to fear without his consent, but it was enough to make Brenda settle into a smug position, her shoulder's relaxed, realizing she had won.

“You know,” she said in an almost sing-song voice, “Sometimes Wicked let's me join in. That would be fun wouldn't it Thomas? All three of us-”  
Thomas looked utterly disgusted.

“Whoever the fuck you are,” he spat, “you're fucking disgusting.”  
Brenda shook her head, laughing softly.

“Oh, calm down Thomas,” she said off-handedly, “I was only kidding! Anyways, you're going to have to do what I say anyway. It's your own choice to make it easy or to make it difficult.”  
With that, she flounced off, practically skipping away. Thomas had never hated a girl as much as he hated her, but he followed anyway, wary.

The hallway with nicely painted walls did apparantly lead to a stark white laboratory. Thomas had been closely guarded by the two men Brenda had promised were waiting by his door. The lab was screened off with a one way window. Thomas glanced at his reflection, and found he looked terrible, skinny and weak. He shivered as he noticed dark bruises around his face and neck, a reminder of the night before. He sharply looked away.  
In the room, there were multiple chairs, like the one's that could be pushed back into a horizontal position in a dentist's office. Each one had a sick-looking head contraption with needles and spikes adorning it disturbingly.

“What is this?” Thomas asked. He stopped a good distance away from the chairs.

“We didn't just pick you so you could be Wicked's boy toy you know,” Brenda said lazily, “no we've got plans for you. First, though, we have a show.”  
Before Thomas could say something back, the door opened again, and a young woman, around the age of Thomas, with bright, bright, bright red hair was pushed into the room, her eyes wide with fear.

“Who the hell are you people?” she shrieked. Thomas blinked in surprise.

“Subject 100S,” the guard who had brought the woman said, ignoring her shouts.

“Good, good, bring her here,” Brenda said pleased and businesslike, momentarily forgetting Thomas.

Thomas was forced to watch, held still by the two guards, as the girl was shoved into one of the chairs.

Fighting, she was given a sedative. Her eyes were wide and open, frantically moving as her arms and legs could not. The head contraption was brought down slowly, and the girl protested in slurred motions and sounds.

“What the hell are you doing to her?” Thomas shouted, pulling against the guard.

Brenda looked up at him with an exasperated expression, like he was a child who had asked a particularly stupid question.

The girl whimpered as the contraption attached itself to her head, and wires snaked out, wrapping around her. In a short few seconds, her back arched and was obviously screaming but the contraption muffled the sound.

“Stop-” Thomas started desperately, but Brenda hushed him, a nauseating glint of fascination in her eye.

Eventually, the girl stopped seizing, and standing white-coats were furiously scrawling on their clipboards.

“That was the longest we've had,” one of them said appraisingly, “We're improving.”

“Clear the body. Next subject is prepped.”  
“Ninety-seven seconds...”

“Only need one hundred twenty to complete the assignment...”

“What the hell is happening?” Thomas shouted over their excited chatter.

They stopped talking and looked at him like they had only just noticed him. Brenda grinned, as next to her the girl's head was taken out of the contraption. Thomas felt sick as the girl slumped as the support she had holding up fell away. Quickly two burly men carried her onto a gunnery, wheeling her away.

“Thomas,” Brenda gushed, walking towards him. Thomas recoiled. “Oh Thomas. Tom. We're doing the impossible. Someday, our names will be in history books. You'll understand eventually.”

Thomas glared at her stonily, unimpressed.

“We,” paused Brenda for what she hoped was effect, “Are fixing humanity.”

+++

“These are the current missing reports. Scouts are going through the city trying to find out if there are more victims. Thomas Greene was the very beginning of fresh hell,” Sonya was walking briskly at the same pace as Newt as he stormed through out the station, trying to cover some order. He had to hand it to her, being able to walk in four inch heels was a talent that he would forever attribute with her.

“You said one was dead,” Newt took the files she handed him.

“Yes,” she said. They had done a full 360 around the station and were back at the conference room. Inside, Minho and Aris were yelling into phones and Gally and Alby were trying to make up a map from the evidence.

“Andrew Yi Men, 29. Youngest CEO for DigiMaxs New York. Found him quite literally lying in a ditch with the same Maze sign. It seemed to be in his blood. They're coming back with results, along with cause of death.”

“He was arranged in the same position as the other corpse they had found,” Minho put in, handing up a rather gruesome candid of the crime scene. “In fact, the only different between the two is that this body was fresh. The other was at least three months old.”

“Got the autopsy results back,” Aris suddenly said. He clicked a few keys on his laptop and brought up the file they had sent him.

“A death like that, it had to be brute force. The amount of blood in the torso, we're looking for a middle aged man, maybe two hundred to three hundred pounds,” Gally shook his head.

“Actually,” Aris said with a tone of surprise, “the cause of death wasn't the laceration on the torso. It was... nothing they've seen before. The closest explanation they've got is electrocution, the man's brain is literally mush, but there aren't any electrocution burns anywhere on the body.”

“So what,” Alby asked, “they magically electrocute them, and then cut them up after they're dead and put 'em up for display? Why go through all that trouble?

“It's a warning. Or a message. Were there any messages near the body?”

Minho ruffled through some pictures and put up another one.

“Blood,” Sonya said distastefully, “it's a little bit away from the body though.”

“Shame or disgust,” Newt offered, speaking up again, “they were just grunts doing the dirty work. They've got none of the same morals as the ones we're looking for. At least, not as strong morals as the ones we're looking for..”

“'We're saving you'?” Minho read out loud.

“Hero complex,” Aris said, the youngest of the profilers, “think they're doing what's right. A form of vigilantes. I'll try and get through some of the police records on the victims. Maybe whoever's doing this, Maze, is finding petty criminals they decided hadn't been punished throughly enough and is taking justice on their own hands.”

“Go,” Newt nodded, “meanwhile, we need to try and figure out where they're keeping the victims. There are obviously more than one unsub, this is an entire organization we're dealing with, a very smart and patient organization-”

Sonya's phone buzzed and she quickly answered it. Newt's heart plummeted as he watched her expression become worried.

“What?” he asked as she shut her phone.

“They've found another body,” she said grimly, “they're picking up their pace.”

+++

“Caroline Lockett, 28,” Sonya read out loud, “Professor at Princeton University. Was visiting her sister apparently, when she was reported missing earlier.”

“Nasty spot she's gotten in, hasn't she?” Newt muttered. His team and Sonya had resorted to visiting the scene while it was fresh. Minho was gathering evidence while Aris took pictures to print later. Newt stopped in front of the dead body, sprawled in the same humiliating position as the other bodies. Her bright red hair matched the blood that was still wet on the ground.

Alby came up and stood next to him, looking up at the message written in blood on the wall with him.

“We're doing what's right for humanity,” he read, “Jesus Newt, they've accelerated their murders by at least 200%. We have to find where the rest of the prisoners are. We need to find Maze.”

“Yeah,” Newt mumbled, looking around. Something was off, he knew it, there was a clue that they had missed. Stepping across the police caution tape, he approached the body. Using his sterile gloved hands, he sifted through her clothing, an itch in the back of his head telling him he was getting closer.

_“I am Maze. Maze is me. We are all part of the Maze, one way or the other. Even you, Newt. Or should I call you James? That was your name wasn't it? Before you lost your mother-”_

Finally, rolling up her sleeves, he found a few numbers and letters written in marker it seemed on her arm.

“100S,” Alby said, surprised, “what do you think that means?”

“It's a serial number ID. These aren't just random kidnappings. Jesus, I think these are organized experimentation.”

“That narrows down the possible Maze locations and associations tenfold though,” Minho said, stepping next to Alby.

“Yeah,” Newt muttered, “but now we know that they've picked up their pace. I expect that we're going to find a lot more of these bodies in the next few days.”

The group started as they heard tire screeches and insistent chatter and clattering nearby.

“Fuck,” Gally swore.

“Great, the media,” Minho groaned as news reporters began to harass police officers at the border of the police caution tape, “this case just got that much harder.”

“I'm surprised we've held them off this long,” Sonya sighed dejectedly, “let's go meet our blood-thirsty fan-base.”

+++


	5. Chapter 5

They were all insane.

That was the only logical explanation Thomas could think of for these lunatics.

Thomas had been forced back into the red bedroom after his outburst by the guards. Brenda had chosen to stay behind, just as another frightened young woman was brought into the room. Thomas felt sick as he realized what would happen to her.

“You're all completely evil,” Thomas spat just as the door to his lush prison was closed.

“Words like that hurt you know,” a voice rippled behind him.

Thomas's blood chilled and he paled.

“No.”

Thomas turned around and glued himself to the door.

“Don't be like that Thomas. I had fun last night. It was relaxing.”

“No, don't. Don't touch me,” he demanded, as Wicked rose from the bed, stretching like cat. He reached behind him and tried the doorknob in futile attempt. He knew it would be locked but it would be stupid not trying every-

The door clicked.

Both Thomas and Wicked froze for a second before Thomas turned, and bolted.

“Thomas!” he heard Wicked shout behind him as he slammed the door as hard as he could before pelting down the hallway. Running, he took a hard left at the end of the hallway, dimly aware he was barefoot as he felt carpet burn under him. The lights flickered and a siren started to whine above him but he didn't stop running. He saw two armed men in front of him, wearing strange white suits that Thomas would have questioned in any other scenario but barely comprehended in Thomas's head right now. The men aimed for him, their weapons unlike any Thomas had ever seen, yet Thomas swallowed his fear and kept running at them. His heart pounding to the rhythm of blood rushing to his feet and head, he managed to not get shot by either of them as he wove in between them and kept running.

By now, Thomas had realized with a fall of despair that he didn't know where the fuck he was going. Skidding, he found himself taking another turn, panting hard for breath, as he ran like he hadn't ran before, pictures, walls, lights, all blurring past him until-

Thomas felt another powerful force grab him out of the blue, slam him against the wall, causing stars to dance in front of his eyes.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Wicked's menacing grin asked, next to Thomas's ears. A random thought managed to make it's way in Thomas's head, Wicked was panting as well. I caused him trouble, Thomas thought weakly with a flash of satisfaction, when Wicked began attacking him with his mouth, biting and licking his neck right there in the hallway.

Mortified, Thomas shoved away from him.

“What the fuck,” he swore, only to be covered again by his unwanted attention. He was dimly there were guards standing at attention behind Wicked, and his head burned with humiliation.

“You're mine,” Wicked growled, “you don't get to leave until I say you can.”  
Wicked threw him down to the floor, he had been holding Thomas up off the floor by more than a few inches, then promptly nodded to the guards. Roughly, they began leading Thomas down the march of shame.

The walk back was much longer, and Thomas realized that he hadn't been running any farther away, but deeper into the building, which was apparantly massive.

“Where the fuck is this,” Thomas asked mostly to himself, not expecting an answer from his silent companions. He only earned a probe on the back to keep walking.  
Eventually, they reached the laboratory again, where Thomas saw three of the previously empty chairs from early with occupants all in various forms of pain.

“You've wasted a lot of my time Thomas,” Wicked said disappointedly. How long did my chase even take, Thomas thought. A spark of annoyance at Wicked's melodramatics blossomed in his head. Surprisingly, it wasn't the kidnapping, rape, or experimentation that finally made Thomas feel and realize the emotion irritation. It was a stupid character trait.

“Either way, we couldn't have a little bit more fun,” Wicked leered, and Thomas paled again, yet he refused to look down from Wicked. “We'll just have to skip to Phase One.”

It took three full seconds for Thomas to realize what he meant by Phase One as he was being shoved into one of the empty chairs.

“What,” Thomas shouted, “no, let me go, you're not putting that crazy ass contraption on me and then just melt my goddamn brain!”  
“Shame you won't understand your full purpose Thomas,” Wicked sighed, “The machine has been working better and better for each of the past two day's trials. Hopefully, we were right in our observations.”  
“What observations?”

Thomas was so busy staring down Wicked he had hardly noticed Brenda behind him in the chair until she was pressing buttons and strapping harnesses.

“Those weren't there this afternoon,” Thomas mumbled, confused.

“This afternoon? Thomas you weren't here this afternoon. You were here yesterday.”

“What?”

Brenda looked back at a scientist with a clipboard in hand.

“Note that the pre-procedure dosage had a lingering affect on Subject 203T. No memory and vague misconception of time.”

“When the hell did you give me drugs?”

Brenda paused.

“Make that extreme misconception of time.”

Thomas's heart raced and mind froze as Brenda's words sunk in. From the time he had last come to the laboratory apparently a full day ago to being strapped into the chair now, he remembered little to nothing, just barely enough to fill a few hours of an afternoon. Anything could have done to him and he wouldn't remember. A rising panic attack started to build in the back of his head as the idea of no longer being able to trust his own mind in this hell. Everything he could remember was lucid and made sense, there were no blackouts in his memory.

Though, what did his old cell look like again? There was a table maybe? Or was it a chair? He was going as insane as the people who worked here.  
“Don't think too hard about it Thomas,” Brenda interrupted his thoughts, “our research shows that increased levels of hormones from panic and over-thinking during the Phase One of the procedure leads to a higher expectancy rate of failure. And you and I both know how failure looks like.”

His mind jolting to the present made him aware of the fact that was was strapped to the chair like an executioner.

Next to him, the young man with black hair looking shockingly similar to his, jerked once more before going limp in his head contraption. Scientists immediately came forward to take measurements and write records.

“Oh god,” Thomas muttered softly, fear replacing his panic. He felt cold and numb with it, and could barely feel his attempts to rip out his restraints.

“Relax Thomas,” Brenda whispered. She pressed a few buttons and the contraption began to move above him. Thomas watched it get closer and closer with anxiety as his heart rate rose and his breathing became heavier.

“Brenda, please, no,” Thomas moved his head away from the approaching contraption. He felt the first spike pricking his cheek.

“Don't worry Thomas. It'll all be over soon.”

+++

He promised himself that the next reporter he saw, Newt was going to shoot them down. Literally.

“Can't you get rid of them?” he snapped at the police officer nearest him, Winston, “I swear to god, the next sunny-smiled, huge break-awaiting twenty year old who asks me if I had considered the local mexican gang or not, I'm going to shoot them in the face.”  
Winston sighed, just as harried as Newt was, “I'll try. Again.”  
Newt rubbed his temple before he faced Ben, the team's lead statistical technician and Aris who had been working on victimology.

“Have you got any idea where the hell they could possibly be kept?” Newt's words were blurring together but Aris knew him well enough to know what he was saying.

“I've tried,” Aris sighed, “the victims were not killed on site. That's for sure. They were dropped off there. I have no idea where all the blood came from, maybe the sick fucks mutilated the body at the drop site, but someone would have  _ noticed  _ the murder . From each drop site there are two connecting points. From the they were in a music store in Jamaica and a garage warehouse in Queens. Where do you think they're keeping murder victims?”  
“What have you got for victimology,” Newt seemed to have had a permanent frown for the past seventy hours since he took the case.

Ben took a deep breath. He looked as exhausted as Newt felt and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at the compute scene for so long.

“They're all very successful. High intelligence, all with at least with Masters degrees. They're all in their twenties, got far in life very young. Both female and male, all in excellent health condition, according to their medical records. The perfect test subjects.”

“I've been trying to find any other possible victims to be in lower Manhattan that are currently in the city but,” Aris laughed dryly, “to be completely honest, the closest I've got is you, Newt.”

Newt barely comprehended what Aris said, just key pieces of information that passed the ever ticking clock in his head that was telling him he was farther and farther from finding Thomas Greene.

“About that warehouse and music store,” Newt said instead, “pull up everything you can get on the them.”

Ben typed in a few commands into his keyboard and multiple databases popped up.

“The music store is family-owned. Founded in 1965. The current owner is the granddaughter of the founder apparantly, her name is Emma Joel. All her records are clean, she has a marriage record since 2009 and has a bachelor's in business. Everything about her and the store checks out, health inspections, taxes, everything.”

“The warehouse?”

Ben moved a couple of windows.

“Not as much on the warehouse. Technically everything checks out about it. Uh, nothing is necessarily illegal, nothing that catches attention, inspections-”

“Name?”

Ben looked up at Newt. “What?”

“Name, who owns the warehouse?”

“Um,” Ben paused, “a company or something. It's some sort of storage unit for Medical and Zetetic Establishment.”

Newt blinked and his heart skipped a beat.  _ It was almost too easy.  _

“Maze, that's Maze,” Aris mumbled, as shocked as Newt.   
“We got them?” Ben asked, relaxing into his chair. “That's it?”

“That's it,” Newt murmured, though a warning bell told him it was far from over. Maze was much more elaborate than that. They had much more in plan, they wouldn't let themselves be compromised so quickly It was as if they were wanting us to find them, Newt thought uneasily.

“So what do we do now?” Sonya asked. Others around them had also tuned into the conversation, patiently awaiting the detective's decision. Newt breathed out heavily and rubbed his temple.

“Storm the garage,” he finally said, “maybe, maybe we can catch them at something, whatever it is. We have to do something, we've got to make a move, we're running out of time.”

“Sir,” Winston said nervously, “are you sure? If you're wrong-”

“Yes Winston. I'm perfectly aware of what happens if I'm wrong. Tell Minho to prepare the SWAT team. I'm going with them.”

Newt ignored the way Aris' eyes slipped to his limp and then back up at him.

“Newt-” he started.

“Don't,” he interrupted, giving him a disapproving glare, “I'm going.”

He turned and stalked away, out the door to find Minho. He instead met Alby on his way and from the look on his face, he knew he was going to get it.

“I hear you're going with the SWAT raid,” Alby said, straight to the chase, “why the fuck.”

“Something's up Alby, something's wrong. I need to be there, I need to figure out what Maze's next move is going to be,” Newt replied, his mind lost. He knew what Alby was talking about and Newt was going to stubbornly ignore the topic for as long as possible.

“If something's wrong, isn't it better if you stay here?” Alby asked. He had to dodge a passerby going the opposite direction as them.

“Why?” Newt finally snapped, turning to face him abruptly, daring Alby to challenge him.

“You know why,” Alby stared him down calmly.

“Right, it's because Newt has a fucking limp. Newt can't run right anymore. Newt can't pass his stupid field examination anymore. So obviously, Newt's now useless. Better keep him locked up safe in the police station where he can't cause any trouble,” he hissed, finally livid. “Agent Smith, I am your superior on this case. I have never pulled the rank card, because I respect you and the rest of the team and consider you all my equals. But if you keep me one second longer from doing my job the way I need to do it, I will get you forced back into a desk job.”

Newt left Alby with his back up tall and walking just so his limp was barely noticeable, clenching through the pain it caused him.

He stopped by the weaponry they had the station and put on an FBI vest and reloaded his handgun that he kept in his jacket. When he found Minho, he nodded at the agent and slipped into the car with him. Minho didn't say anything, he rarely ever did before a raid and he wasn't as stupid as to call out Newt on his choices, just clicked on the siren and sped out the of station's parking lot. Towards the warehouse.

Towards, Newt thought apprehensively, Maze's trap.

+++


	6. Chapter 6

Thomas coughed when he woke up. He coughed horribly, his mouth and throat dry from who knows how long deprivation of water.

He blinked, trying to take in his surroundings. Am I dead? He thought weakly, is this heaven? I mean, I deserve heaven, don't I?

He felt surprisingly fine, considering-

_She pressed a few buttons and the contraption began to move above him. Thomas watched it get closer and closer with anxiety as his heart rate rose and his breathing became heavier._

Thomas gasped and bolted up into a sitting position in a flash of adrenaline, regretting it a millisecond later as the blood rushed from his brain, down. He waited for the dark from his eyes to fade away and looked around. He definitely wasn't in the laboratory anymore. And, after taking his pulse, he was definitely still alive.

Thomas's attention snapped to a loud and unsettling clanging sound near him, sounding a bit like a door. A little farther away from him, he saw a large door creak open, showing and allowing in the sound and sights of the lower city, like sirens, orange street lights, and continuous static and buzz of telephone lines. Weakly, he tried to move toward the door, finding that his muscles seemed to have forgotten how to work. It was less than 300 feet away but it felt like miles as he partially crawled, partially slithered towards the door. He had nearly reached a third of the way when two men entered from the door and closed it behind them, enclosing them in darkness until lights flashed on, temporarily blinding Thomas. His head was sluggish and whatever he had been given beforehand seemed to have made it's regrets all at once.

“There he is. The one who saved humanity,” the shorter said, in a mocking tone. Thomas couldn't discern who it was, not even if he had met them beforehand though his voice was disturbingly clear as he was quite a distance from him. 

“What?” Thomas asked, his voice sounding foreign to himself. Was it that deep before?

“You're not supposed to be alive.”

“Then why am I?”

“Because,” the men had reached him by now. Thomas had also found his way to his feet, “the program worked with you. You were the final piece, just like Chancellor said you would be.”

Thomas picked up the word before the man realized his mistake.

“Chancellor?” Thomas asked, interested.

“It doesn't matter,” the other spoke up, “you've come here for slaughter anyway. It won't matter what you hear because within the next fifteen minutes, you'll be dead.”

The man revealed a revolver from his leather jacket, and Thomas's survival instinct activated as he backed up. He regretted not running when he had the chance but in his previous condition of barely being able to move for whatever reason, that hadn't been a possibility. The men were blocking the only apparent escape so Thomas's only hope, and it was a very small hope, was to stall.

“If I'm the final piece, then why do you want to kill me?” Thomas asked, his hands up in a pacifying manner, “I mean, wouldn't you want to keep me alive longer?”

“With the program installed in you, you've become a danger to the mission and to others. We've gotten everything we need from you to make the program accessible. You're disposable now,” the man said carelessly, loading his weapon. Thomas moved back faster until he realized he was going to be backed up against the wall.

“Stay still,” the other said harshly, sensing that Thomas was preparing to run. “It'll be quicker this way.”

Thomas did not listen. He bolted, rushing towards the men, finding the easier route to the doors through them, towards the one with the gun. He was shorter and clumsier than the taller brunet one, who seemed capable of one-to-one fighting, but Thomas intended on surprising them. One of the two was not prepared, the one with the gun. The other was.

As Thomas tried to dodge the two, the brunet grabbed his arm, twisting it behind Thomas's back, making him shout in pain. Thomas turned and kicked up, knee out, and getting him in the gut. Spinning and then ducking from the shorter's arm range, he shot out his hand, using the palm of his hand to knock back the other's head, dazing him. Thomas slammed his head against the back wall, and then let him crumple to ground, efficiently put out of action. Thomas tried running again but the brunet, who was on the ground from Thomas's attack, grabbed his legs, dragging him down. Thomas kicked out again, striking out where he could. The two of them were up on their feet again, the brunet trying to grab him and keep him still as he struggled but Thomas continued to punch at him, preferring his face and his abdomen. The man shouted as Thomas was able to knee him him in the right spot and Thomas knew he had won, he was going to get away, 200 feet away from the door, 150 feet, 100.

A gunshot echoed in the warehouse, and then promptly after, another followed. Thomas stopped, confused and shocked as he looked down at his chest, where his shirt was blooming with red. A slightly surreal feeling settled over him, as his disbelief of being shot overcame the numbness and then the pain that was sure to follow; if he didn't bleed out first. Stumbling, he turned around, and saw the shorter one up on his feet again, with his gun in hand. As he fell to his knees, he saw the two men get up and brush themselves off, their work down. He was dizzy now and felt woozy from shock. In his blurry vision he noticed the men had drifted their attention away from picking themselves up. Something was coming. The last thing he could discern of them was them leaving rather hurriedly through a door that had been hidden from Thomas's view beforehand but by then, he could barely bring himself to care.

He could feel his life draining away, literally ounce by ounce.

+++

When Minho turned the last left before they reached the warehouse, Newt turned off the sirens, and signaled for the other officers to do the same. The best chance they had was stealth because right now, Maze held all the cards. Minho silently pulled up to the warehouse, a large, dark, and remote building, one of the old ones with many separate sections, without any public buildings or any of the sort around it. It was perfectly isolated, Newt thought, so why was there a van outside of it?

Getting out of the car and closing the door quietly behind him. He unclipped his gun from his holster, being sure to keep the safety on for now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aris and Gally leaving their vehicles, along with about four other officers as a few more vehicles were coming in as back up. Using quick jabbing motions, he signaled they go to the back of the building. Gally nodded and led two of the officers towards the left while Aris took the remaining two to the right. Minho and Newt crept towards the front of the warehouse. Jerking his head, Minho mouthed 'cover me' to Newt, who nodded, readying his weapon. Taking a deep breath, he paused, then pushed the unlocked door open quickly, bringing up his weapon.

“FBI!” he shouted, Newt behind him watching the entrance for any sneak attacks. Making a quick sweep of the darkened room, he turned back to Newt, and shook his head.

“Clear,” he shouted as custom. Newt entered the room as well, side by side with Minho.

“Look there's another door,” he said, pointing out the one in front of them. Using the same procedure as before, they entered that room as well, finding it empty and exactly like the one before. It was a rectangular room, maybe eight by ten, and made of gray concrete. It was filthy, but there were no signs of water, life, or usage like trash or mold.

“What the fuck,” Minho stated, confused, “what's the layout for this building?”  
Newt noticed a door to the left and one to the right of the room, and opened the left door, his gun up just in case. He found it just the same.

“It's a goddamn maze,” he muttered to himself. “Nicely played you bastards.”

“Radio the others,” he told Minho, “figure out where they are. Maybe we've missed something.”  
Seconds before Minho could reach his transmitter, a crackle told them that someone was on their wavelength.

“Aris says that they found an open door on the second floor. He thinks they heard talking but it was hard to tell because they were on the first floor under it and couldn't see inside.”

Newt turned and ran to tear open the right door, finding more and more doors as he went deeper and deeper into the building. Minho swore and then told all the units to not come inside and figure out a way to get up the second floor without going through the first. Then he fought to follow Newt, who was desperately trying to find a route that didn't have any dead ends.

“Newt, dammit, slow down, you're not going to help Greene by getting lost in this mess,” Minho shouted.

“We're so bloody close Minho. I'm not letting Maze take this one away from me. I'm not letting them win this case!” With a sense of finality, Newt slammed open the last door, stopping as he and Minho faced a flight of stairs.

The next few moments were slightly unreal yet the clearest Newt had in a long time, nothing but the blood rushing in his ears as he sprinted up the stairs, Minho close behind. His gun was cocked by now, ready to fire because of an instinct in his gut told him he would need it. The moment he stepped on the front few steps, the door from the level above them opened, with two men leaving it. Newt's gun flew up in position.

“FBI! FBI! Drop your weapon!” he shouted. The two men did not do as he asked, and the shorter one with the gun started to fire at him, missing him by miles it seemed until Minho came up behind Newt and fired at the man's leg to disengage him.

“Don't fucking move,” Minho warned them, his gun trained on the one not on the ground screaming in pain as he reached for his transmitter. “When I say so, you're going to reach into your pockets and take out anything that could be considered a weapon. Now-”  
Newt ran passed them, leaving Minho to take care of the two men despite his protests. Breaking open the final door between him and the last room in the warehouse, he came in, preparing for dozens of men with enough arsenal to wipe his team out.

Instead he found a single man, on the ground.

The man didn't seem to be moving.

+++

Thomas was losing blood, way too much blood, when he faintly heard shouting in the distance. The doors blasted open, and there was a dull noise of “FBI, FBI!” Even fainter sounds of gunfire got closer but Thomas could barely tell, as the air filled with the burning and thickness of spent gunpowder.

He wished they would shut up. He was so close to be done with it all; a few last moments of quiet would be nice. His eyesight was bleary, it was already dark-he couldn't see.

Then Thomas felt the ground near him shake with heavy footfalls. Was he on the ground? Oh, right, he remembered falling now. It was it before or after he was shot?

“Alright, alright,” a voice- male, Thomas noted- spoke fervently near him, “medic's coming. Come on Thomas, hold on for me. We've got you. I've got you. You're safe.” Thomas head was picked up gently and cradled. “We've got you.”  
Thomas didn't know who the hell was idiotic enough to think that they were safe, that they were ever safe, but the voice was smooth and caring though a little muffled. Thomas sighed softly, relaxing even when the man began protesting more vehemently.

It was a beautiful sound to die to.

+++


	7. Chapter 7

The head administrator at New York-Presbyterian Hospital smiled warmly at Newt as he passed her desk at a brisk pace. He nodded a hello, his destination set already as it had been for nearly half a week. The halls were fairly familiar to him now, after years of law enforcement experience. It was fairly common to interview a witness or victim at the hospital.

The night Newt had found Thomas, he was sure the man was dead. After finding a weak pulse, he had called an ambulance to their location and had stayed in the ambulance with him. Minho had met with Gally and Aris and they had gone off to catalog the warehouse, and to process the two men they had found at the scene.

The two men.

Newt was sorely disappointed with the outcome of the two men and definitely at least slightly sickened. He had intended to interrogate them, figure out what Maze was, what Maze wanted, or what they were doing. Minho had disarmed them as protocol, then handcuffed them. Then he had made the mistake of letting them stand on their own as he turned his back to continue on his work. The two men had apparantly turned and ran the other direction from them. Without stopping, they ran all the way out of the window, throwing themselves off of the second floor headfirst, both somehow dying on impact. Minho had been the one to find them first, and had an ever-present dark expression ever since.

So the men and gaining information were a lost cause though it did raise questions. What in hell on earth could have enlisted the men with so much fear that they would rather commit suicide than be captured by the enemy. Because that's the vocabulary they were using now. Maze had started using full on war tactics. No one knew what else they would use.

Stopping in front of the door, _309,_ he knocked softly, announcing his arrival. There was a quiet shuffling inside and then the door opened, showing a sleepy and disheveled Teresa. She smiled at the detective.

“Agent Isaacson, come in,” she opened the door a little wider, “thanks for coming. I never properly thanked you for finding Thomas either. I heard you came by to visit more than once before, but I was just never in the room at the time.”

Newt entered the fairly large private hospital room, clean and smelling of disinfectant and the sick smell of hospital that Newt always hated.

“It's the job Miss Greene,” Newt offered, professional.

“Agent Isaacson, you and I both know that once you save a client's life, professional is almost an insult.”

Newt blinked, and then smiled, laughing quietly. He offered a hand anyway.

“Newt,” he introduced himself.

Teresa smiled in return and accepted his hand.

“Teresa.”

Newt took his hand back and slipped it into his pocket. He turned towards Thomas, finally getting to the reason why he was there.

“How is he then?” Newt asked.

Teresa sighed, and her shoulder's physically came down with the amount of stress the ordeal had put her through.

“Frankly, they're surprised that he's still alive. If you hadn't found him when you did and if the ambulance had been called any later, he would probably have missed the coma mark and died right there and then in your arms.”

Looking at Thomas, pale, fragile, and awfully vulnerable in the stark hospital setting, Newt suddenly feared that hypothetical situation becoming reality. He then coughed, shaking himself out of the urge to protect, surprising himself. He had found Thomas, that was his job. He had done what he was supposed to do.

“Any chance of him waking up?” he said instead, not letting himself show anything. Teresa ran her hand through her hair helplessly and shrugged, clearing her throat.

“They don't know,” she replied softly, “you know, you would think that once we found Thomas and brought him back, I would feel better and be relieved and happy. The threat is gone. But it's so much more worse, and I don't even know why. Looking at him, I can't even imagine what he went through with, with those psychopaths. And then he was shot and I was so close to losing him-”

Teresa stopped herself, and cleared her through, blinking back threatening tears.

“I'm sorry,” she began again, laughing without any humor, “trust me to get emotional.”

“In my entire career, I have never seen anyone hold up better than you are right now,” Newt offered honestly, “emotional is fine.”

Teresa smiled weakly again and shook her head.

“It's funny. I tell the same thing to my clients.”

“Both law expertise I suppose,” Newt said, “what's your section?”

“Business in general, usually Litigation. I started with Adoption and then moved on to Criminal Law and came back to Child Support.”

Newt's eyes widened, impressed.

“That's quite a repertoire you have. What, never could decide on what you liked the most?”

Teresa shook her head, smirking ironically.

“More like I couldn't deal with one particular type of trash for a long period of time and had to move on to another section. Surprisingly, Criminal Law was the best to me. They all seemed... reasonable. It doesn't make sense, I know, because Criminal Law is the worst, where all the lowest in our society go. But my God. The people in child law. The parents. It's almost like they have no souls. No moral compasses. They don't care how effortlessly they ruined their children's entire life. It's... sickening.”

“Sounds a little close to home?” Newt had meant to make the phrase a statement but it came out as a question. Teresa interested him. If she had such an intertwined and complex life, he couldn't imagine what Thomas's was like. Newt felt like it was getting more and more likely that he would find out a lot about Maze if he tried to dig into the Greene's history.

Teresa started, realizing that she had probably said more than she had meant to. She frowned slightly but it flitted away before Newt could comprehend it. She smirked at Newt and flipped her hair back nonchalantly.

“Ah, well who cares. It was history. It is history. This entire ordeal kind of proves my point that humanity is horrible.”

“Well. I could have told you that. Things I've seen. But still, we're not all that bad. Not really.”

“For Thomas's sake, I hope so.”

+++

“I've got dental matches for the two men who threw themselves off of the warehouse,” Aris said the minute Newt answered his cell.

Newt sighed tiredly. Lately, he had been running himself dry. He didn't think he had gone back to his apartment in the past five days, and had been working himself to the ground with less than ten hours of sleep in the past week.

“Well?” Newt asked.

“They're names are Smithson and Wood. They literally have nothing on them. The only thing we can connect them to is Maze, the business that owned the warehouse. I suppose we could try to sue them somehow but I'm not sure how because there is no connection so far with this Maze and the kidnappings.”

“What? They were at the scene of the crime,” Newt was up on his feet, pacing back and forth in his office without even noticing he had started doing so.

“But the murders, I don't know, they've stopped. Literally. I haven't found any booked murder in the past two weeks even close to what we had found in those three days. It's like they've dropped off the face of the Earth.”

“I'll send in Teresa then. She'll know something that could help us with the legal affairs.”

“Alright,” was all Aris could get in before Newt ended the call and started his way to the hospital again.

As he fastened his seatbelt, he had the vague notion that he probably shouldn't be driving because he was half dead on his feet, but that seemed unimportant as he started the sleek and efficient Ford he drove. The hospital was only ten minutes away anyway, Newt thought, shaking his head to clear it, I'll be fine.

The roads in New York were almost always a mess. Pedestrians and venders and vehicles seemed to all forget what lines were as Newt made his way a little further into Manhattan. Once he passed the city college, the traffic was a little less severe, and Newt relaxed. He loved New York, he did. It was so different from his home in Wales where he had grown up for the majority of his life. Accepting the scholarship to Harvard had been the best decision he had made in his life, when he thought about it, but it made him nerve-barracking guilty. He knew running away to America had been his way of facing the worst moment in his life in the most cowardly way possible. And he would forever regret he couldn't done something a little better, a little less harsh. That he could have helped.

“Fuck,” Newt shouted, harshly brought back to the present as he swerved to avoid hitting the man who had wandered onto the street, smiling widely and loosely. He waved cheerfully to Newt as if he hadn't nearly killed him and continued to waddle away. Newt laughed to himself a little sardonically, and shook his head as his heart calmed down a bit. Gotta love New York.

+++

Newt reached the hospital a little later, with no incidents following. He knocked on Thomas's door, and this time, Minho opened it for him.

“Newtie,” Minho exclaimed, “glad you could join the party. Thomas was just telling this great joke. Oh wait, he's in a coma. I meant I was telling a great joke.”

“Can you really be this insensitive?” Newt frowned, disapprovingly. Minho grinned.

“It's alright,” Teresa reassured him. She gave him a wide grin, laughter sparkling in her eyes. She looked much better now. Her hair had obviously been washed, she looked a little rested, and was wearing a fresh set of clothes from the one she had been wearing all week the last time he visited her. Newt mentally noted thanking Minho in making sure that Teresa kept herself alive and that she was safe.

“So how are you?” Newt asked. Teresa knew by now that he meant both her and her brother.

“I'm fine. Minho had offered to watch over Thomas while I went to the hotel to freshen up. Thomas, well, there hasn't been any progress that they know of at the moment,” she sighed, rubbing her arm. Newt felt sorry for her, realizing the amount of pain she had been going through.

“I've actually got a favor to ask. I was wondering if you could pull up a case and possibly a lawsuit against Maze on the kidnappings from the evidence we have. All the files are with Aris down at the office.”

“I would, anything, really, but who would watched Thomas?”

Newt had the urge to say that there was little to watch but he kept it down and bit his tongue.

“I'll stay,” Newt offered before he knew what he was saying. Teresa and Minho blinked, looking surprised.

“You don't have to,” Teresa tried but Newt made up his mind.

“No, no, it's fine, really, you two go down the station. Start pulling some evidence on the file and pull together a case. We're going to need it with this new information about Smithson and Wood.

They hesitated but nodded, turning to leave. Newt waited for them to completely walk out of his view before he sighed and turned to Thomas.

“So,” he tried, awkwardly rubbing his palms on his pants. “how you doing?”  
Newt blinked, and then groaned. What does one do when in a room alone with a comatose patient? Jesus, how did Teresa deal with this for almost a whole week?

“I'm Newt,” he kept talking anyway, “uh, Newt Isaacson. Actually technically that's not my real name, and I'm not sure why I would tell you that but most people that matter know that so uh. Don't know if you can hear me, probably not, but I'm sort of counting on you waking up because I'm sorta in a dead end right here.”

Newt would have been embarrassed if someone was in the room with him. But still, he had read an article that talking to comatose patients sometimes helped. Maybe he really could hear him?

“Dammit Greene,” Newt muttered dejectedly, “the only person who knows jack shit about Maze, and you're in a coma.”

Thomas didn't reply, obviously. It was actually kind of therapeutic, talking to Thomas. He rarely did talk about his feelings or thoughts, even rarer did he talk about his cases. He wasn't one who was big on sharing but he couldn't help illustrating his frustrations on an unconscious Thomas.

“It would be bugging great if you would wake up soon,” Newt said sarcastically, “really. But no, please, take your time. Not like hundreds of people depend on this case.”

Newt sighed again and slouched in the chair. Thomas slept on.

“Please Thomas,” he whispered, “I have no idea what to do. I need you to wake up. Please”

Newt held his breath childishly. His life wasn't a movie, but it was worth trying. He would do anything, _anything_ , to to keep this case from turning into the Donner case. There would be no way he could handle it. It was his way of being desperate.

After ten seconds, he let himself breathe, almost disappointed but not surprised.

He settled back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the metal hand bar. He sighed again, and closed his eyes, hoping to catch maybe a few minutes of rest. He needed it, he knew, and was nearly out when a soft rustle brought Newt's attention to Thomas fingers. He was surprised but then diligent and hopeful, looking for any sign-

Thomas's finger twitched again.

Newt froze and then jumped, pressing the call button rather excitedly. Thomas's arm moved entirely this time, just a little bit. He's waking up, Newt thought with disbelief, he's actually waking up.

The nurse had just ran up into the room, confused but with a determined face, ready for whatever came at her. And then Thomas slowly, slowly opened his eyes. Newt's head was spinning.

“Hi,” he said lowly, “my name is Agent Newt Isaacson. I'm here to help.”

Thomas looked up at him for a minute, and Newt could practically see the gears turning his head, waking up for the first time in nearly two weeks. He opened his mouth and at first a really croaky sound and gasp came from his throat. And then-

“Just so you know, you could probably get a lot of people to do a lot of naughty things with a pretty voice like that.”

+++


	8. Chapter 8

Thomas was something else. That was the only PG opinion Newt had on the man. Other thoughts seemed to vary from asshole to hot as fuck and frankly it was making Newt very confused.

Near everyone had expected Thomas to be secluded within himself, quiet from his traumatic ordeal. Though, much to the nurses' fond exasperation, Thomas was a bundle of energy from the second day since he woke up and on. It irritated Newt.

And, Newt thought warily, it was not normal.

The fact that Thomas seemed perfectly fine, even after an ordeal of rape, experimentation, and near murder, seemed far too suspicious for Newt. So when Newt once again came to the hospital a few days later, he prepared himself to be cold. After all, cold was the only way to get results.

“Hello Mr. Greene,” Newt said after he knocked and entered.

“Please, no, Thomas,” Thomas grinned, sitting up properly. He stopped, looking at Newt curiously, and then grinned wider.

“You're the one with the pretty voice. Agent Isaacson, yeah?”

Newt could feel a tick at the back of his eye, making his head hurt. Goddammit, he was a grown ass man, his voice wasn't  _ pretty.  _

“I was hoping you could answer a few questions on your imprisonment.”  
A shadow flickered across Thomas's face, but before Newt could confirm it was there, it was gone. It made Newt feel a little guilty. But only just a little.

“Uh, well, the other officers came in already, and asked for everything, I just,” Thomas, stuttered, rubbing the back of his head.

“I would appreciate it if you could give me your own version of it. It's better to analyze that way.”

“Analyze?”

“It's what my team and I do at the Bureau. We take cases and find the psychology of it. Solve cases trying to figure out how other people think. Figure out why they target specific people. It's how we catch them.”  
Thomas nodded, more to himself than to Newt.

“I guess, I could,” Thomas shrugged, “where do you want me to start?”

“What you last remember before your abduction.”

Thomas paused, and then closed his eyes.

“I-I had finished my shift at work. I don't have to do extra clinic hours, but I don't have much to do anyway, so I usually stay from six to four.”

“What day was this?”

Thomas made a face.

“I don't remember the exact date. It was a day before the Johnston surgery, which was on a Wednesday, so Tuesday?”

Newt nodded, motioning him to continue.

“Ah, well, I took the train back home to my apartment, I had eaten at the hospital, so I just changed into running attire. I run everyday after work, unless I have a really big case or surgery coming up in the evening.”

“And then what happened?”

Thomas frowned.

“I had been running for maybe ten minutes, so about a mile away, maybe a little more, from my apartment block, when I guess I don't remember anything. The last thing I think I remember was the little girl who got stuck in the rails of the train. We got her out before the train came, but thing like that, hypes your adrenaline you know? Something you don't really forget easily.”

“Do you remember the general area this was?”

“Um, a subway station, a little near the park? I usually take a round around before I head home.”

Newt made a quick note, and then nodded.

“It's possible that your captors had been watching you for a long time. If you have a certain routine, they usually follow that very precisely, holding out that you'll do everything as you had the day before.”

Thomas grinned a little crookedly.

“I don't really usually have a routine though. Sometimes I won't run, or sometimes I decide that I want to go to the theaters. Other nights I think I want some quick company at the local club. I'm quite random.”

Newt dismissed his explanation. He also barely discerned the subtle reference to Thomas's sex life. At the moment, it was the last thing he wanted to think about.

“It's not uncommon for you to not even be fully aware of your own schedule. We all have one. You might not notice it, but after long periods of time, someone else who's been watching your every move may.”

“So what, you're saying that I need to add some more spice into my life?” Thomas stretched, and damn, he shouldn't look so attractive in a freaking hospital gown. Newt ignored it. Honest.

“There's little you can do. The doctor said they can release you by tomorrow. I'm sure you want to go to your own apartment but at least for now, we would like you to stay at the hotel your sister is staying. That way, we could keep an eye on the both of you.”

At that Thomas straightened, suddenly very alert.

“Sorry, what? Why is my sister being pulled into this?” he asked, his voice strong and demanding. Only with years of experience could Newt see the actual fear in Thomas's expression.

“It's nothing direct at the moment. It just seems Maze has a special soft spot for you and your family.”

Thomas's eyes hardened.

“What happened to my sister?” Thomas demanded coldly. Newt felt the tension in the room like it was tangible.

“Nothing, nothing happened-”

“Tell me what the son-of-a-bitch did to my twin sister!” Thomas yelled, shocking Newt at the sudden attack of anger.

“Thomas, you really need to calm down, your stats,” Newt tried, watching the numbers on the monitor attached to Thomas spiking alarmingly. “Please, nothing has happened to Teresa.”

Thomas eyed him with distrust.

“Who is this son-of-a-bitch?” Newt asked instead.

At that, Thomas's defiant glare faltered, and he looked down to his lap instead.

“He, ah, was my captor,” Thomas replied quietly.

Newt stayed quiet, knowing Thomas wasn't saying something. He had already guessed what it was.

“He raped me,” Thomas finally said, clearly with difficulty. He blinked and then cleared his throat. It was so different from the cheerful, cheeky, Thomas he had been since he woke up, Newt felt his suspicion beginning to dissipate as pity came in

“I'm sorry-” Newt started, when Thomas glared at him again.

“No. I don't want your pity,” Thomas interrupted him rather harshly, “I'm not going to lie, I want a lot of things, starting with Wicked on the death row, but the one thing I do not want is your pity.”

Newt nodded and then shifted his gaze down to his notes.

“Wicked?”

“He told me to call him that.”

“Anyone else that you remember?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, when he stopped, clearly confused for a second, “Um, sorry, I blanked out, it was... Britney? Brooke? Brenda maybe? I don't know, it's getting harder to remember.”

“It's fine, that's normal. You're trying to erase all of the bad memories. We can come back to it when you remember.”

Thomas nodded, though he didn't look very convinced.

“Can you describe where you were kept?”

“Um,” Thomas frowned, “it, was a large place. It was huge. Like a maze. I-I tried to get away and-”  
Thomas furrowed his eyebrows.

“Goddamn, why can't I remember?” Thomas whispered mostly to himself.

Newt was becoming as confused as Thomas. “Can you describe anything that stood out?”  
Thomas bit his lip then nodded slowly.

“There-was this room. I, I remember being disgusted, I think it had, cages? It was-”  
Thomas's eyes widened as if he had an epiphany.

“I remember, it was a huge room, it had cages with human test subjects in them, it was insane, they were treated like animals. They- there was lab too. They took me to a laboratory-”  
Newt could tell from the way Thomas was mentally debating with himself that his interrogation would have to wait. He had quite a lot of information from him anyway.

“Alright, thank you,” Newt finally said, a little disappointed anyway. He moved to put away his notebook as Thomas switched to an easy and comfortable position.

“Course, anytime,” he smirked, “you know, they told me that I could leave in a couple of days. I was wondering if maybe I could take you out for a night. I have a record of being unforgettable.”

Newt looked at him blankly.

“Trust me, with that attitude, I'm not finding that hard to believe,” Newt replied finally.

Thomas mockingly put his hand on his chest, playfully looking affronted.

“Your words hurt me Agent Isaacson.”

“As for your offer, it would be a no. I don't usually like to get close to people, especially not someone a part of one of the biggest FBI cases in New York.”

Thomas shrugged. “Maybe when you'll change your mind.”  
Newt laughed lowly under his breath so that Thomas wouldn't catch it. Then he turned and left, not bothering to give Thomas a second look.

+++

The next time Newt saw Thomas was four days later at the NYPD headquarters. It was the FBI subdivision at New York, where Newt worked full-time. He did occasionally go to Quantico, the headquarters, but he had been stationed at New York for nearly five years since he had moved to America. It was reasonably spaced, on the fourth floor of a tall skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan but with such a huge threat, the entire division in New York and the anti-terrorism division had been working together on the same floor. Crowded was an understatement.

“Greene, what are you doing here?” Newt greeted him abruptly. He had a few files in hand as he stood a good foot away from him.

“Wow, is that how you greet everyone around here?” Thomas asked, smirking. Minho, who had over heard a little while walking past them, said over his shoulder, “pretty much, greenie,” before speed-walking away. They had continued to have get so many tips from the tip-line, even after Thomas had been found, that the team and the police station were rarely standing still anymore.

“Anyway,” he said, directing Newt's attention towards him, “apparantly the hospital needs a signed permission slip from a parent before they let me start work again.” Thomas's expression made it obvious how he thought about those arrangements. Newt, however, did see their point and frowned.

“Do you really think that's wise?” Newt asked slowly, “I mean, you were released from the hospital literally yesterday. You really want to go back to work, to your normal routine, after all of that?”

Thomas shrugged. Newt didn't look as convinced.

“You know, there are plenty of support groups in New York, hundreds in fact, that concern victims like-” Newt had started when Thomas interrupted him with a forced laugh.

“I'm fine, Agent Isaacson. Really. I'm not kidding either, I don't know why but I feel... completely fine.”

Newt thinned his lips, worrying his brow.

“I really would feel more comfortable if you stayed with someone for the next week at least. Teresa was here just a second ago. We don't know how Maze is coping with your loss right now. They're particularly unpredictable right now. I just-”

Thomas stared him down, determination set.

“No offense Agent Issacson, but I will not sit around to be babysat for the week. Sorry, but no. So either you say I can work or I figure out illegal and unspeakable ways to go to work anyway.”

“I heard 'illegal' and now I am here,” Teresa popped up out of nowhere, obviously startling Thomas but he covered it up quickly, “Tom, you didn't say you were coming today.”  
Thomas shrugged pathetically.

“It was a last minute decision,” he offered weakly. All three of them knew he was lying. Teresa's cheerful, happy expression from seeing her brother again faltered just a bit and Thomas felt a little guilty because he loved his sister and knew how hard everything going on was for her, but he came to the station for a reason and he was going to go through with it. He turned to Newt again.

“Thomas, I'm going to say no. I need you to stay with Teresa for a while, until this all clears up.” Newt finally said. Thomas's eyes flashed slightly.

“Alright. Who needs the law anyway, right?”  
Newt's scowl tightened and Thomas prepared himself for a lengthy and heated debate on his abilities but then, surprising Thomas, he sighed. “You're one stubborn bastard Tommy, I'll give you that. Fine, I'll sign your bloody form. Just be careful you prick.”  
Thomas grinned brightly and exclaimed “Really?” at the same time as Teresa, who on the other hand, said it in a complete different tone.

“Agent Issacson, you can't really let Thomas go back to work, I mean,” Teresa laughed, worried. Thomas frowned.

“I'm sorry Teresa. It's against my better judgement but Thomas is a consenting adult. On his head I guess,” Newt replied uncomfortably, fidgeting a little between the siblings. Teresa blinked, scowled, and promptly blew air out of her nose, turning around to stalk away.

“Thanks,” Thomas smiled as he turned around to Newt as she left.

Newt turned around, to continue on the files he had left, promptly going back to ignoring Thomas, still a little uncomfortable from displeasing someone who Newt had grown to consider a friend over the weeks. “You should apologize Tommy. You don't want to leave your sister angry. Not at a time like this.”

Thomas shrugged, unfazed by Newt's sudden cold shoulder. “She doesn't hold grudges. And either way, she knows why I need to back to work. No one knows me like she does.”

Newt paused, glanced up at the wall, and then back again.

“Need to, hmm?” Newt muttered softly to himself. “Interesting word choice there Greene.”  
Thomas smirked, covering up a split second of regret  and realization of his mistake.

“ Always profiling aren't you? Can't even say a full sentence without you preying on every word. Anyway, y ou should be talking. 'Consenting adult?' It sounded like you were beginning a lecture about the birds and the bees.”

“Alright Tommy, first of all,” when Newt turned around to give him a piece of his mind, Thomas looked like he had struck gold. Or maybe he had figured out the answer to the universe. Perhaps both. Newt stopped talking.

“What?” Newt asked warily, slightly uneasy.

“Tommy,” Thomas was grinning cheekily, “you called me Tommy. Hell, you've been calling me Tommy all  _ day.  _ You gave me a  _ nickname _ . Don't people do that when they're getting close to someone?”

Newt's death glare could have burned holes in diamonds.

“Don't make me regret signing your form dammit.”

“I don't think anyone has ever called me Tommy before.”

“I'm serious right now Thomas.”

“ _ Tommy,”  _ he whispered with wonder. 

_“Shut up.”_

+++


	9. Chapter 9

Thomas took a deep breath, taking in the strong smell of disinfectant and other unidentifiable hospital smells. He already felt calmer and more comfortable than he had the entire week.

“Greene!” Michaels exclaimed, “what are you doing here?”

“Got that permission slip from Mom,” he grinned cheekily.

“Mom,” Michaels said disbelievingly, “as in Newt Isaacson, the best detective in New York?”

“Oh,” Thomas shrugged as he checked in the log at the lobby, “so you've heard about that.”

“Heard about it? Man, it's all anyone is talking about. Your kidnapping is apparantly the biggest thing in New York since the last serial killer we had. Where have you been?”

“In extensive care,” he replied sardonically. Michaels' grin became a little more fixed.

“Oh, yeah, well, that makes sense.”

“I'm going to go see if the clinic has any patients for me. See you Michaels.”  
He waved goodbye then turned away.

Thomas was able to insert himself back into his normal work schedule fairly easily. There were plenty of people who had of course mentioned the kidnapping but it more annoyed Thomas than make him uncomfortable. He would quickly brush it off, and eventually he did it so many times, he barely noticed. He would refuse Wicked the ability to take away his job from him, indirectly or directly. His job was all he had.

“Mrs. Clem?” Thomas asked to the waiting room of the clinic. A middle-aged woman with dark red hair waved her hand in response and started gathering her belongings. Thomas waited patiently as she smiled at him and followed him to an examination room.

“I'm Doctor Greene,” Thomas introduced himself as he opened the door, letting her in, “if you could just take a seat on the bench Mrs. Clem-”

“Sarah please.”

“Sarah.”

Usually nurse personal would lead patients to examination for the doctors and take care of the preliminary check-up before the doctors came in but Thomas never liked it when someone else did the work for him. More of a chance of not getting what he needed and what was the point of giving the nurses even more work?

Thomas went through the standard procedures normally and like all the patients he had done before, checking her ears, her mouth, her reflexes. He stepped back to go the counter, throwing away the cap on his otoscope.

“Alright Sarah, I'm just going to one quick test and then-ah,” Thomas cried out suddenly, dropping the tray and bringing his hands up to his head.

“Dr. Greene? Dr. Greene are you alright, should I-should I call someone,” Sarah asked quickly and nervously, unsure as she jumped up from the bench. Thomas wasn't able to answer her, practically blinded by the sudden pain in his head.

“Oh, god,” he gasped, “I-

He crashed into the wall as he stumbled, making Sarah jump and reach for the door. He faintly heard her calling out for help when he fell to the floor, and blackness washed over him with faint, distant echos of sinister laughter.

+++

When Newt saw Thomas was regaining conscious, he had his scowl set.

“So,” he started dully, “I let you out of babysitting and let you go to work, and I find out five hours later you passed out. You're a fucking doctor Greene, what gives.”

Thomas groaned, trying to clear his head.

“If you can't take care of yourself, you realize that I'm either going to have to make you stay in the hospital or at home with a supervisor,” Newt continued, “if that's not possible, which I doubt is, you'll have to be stuck at the station.”

“I-god,” Thomas tried to get a word in, “I don't even know what happened.”

Newt waited.

“I was feeling fine, I had just finished, finished examining the patients ears when I feel like, a train just ran over the left part of my brain,” he sighed, being careful not to mention the laughter. He tried sitting up, realizing he was still in the hospital and his scrubs in some hospital room somewhere.

“I should probably call a doctor.”

“I am a doctor.”

“I should probably call a doctor who isn't having migraines.”

“Actually, you probably should call a doctor.”

Newt paused, and schooled his expression to unreadable.

“Thomas, be honest. Seriously. Are you alright? Believe it or not, I actually am a good listener. It's sort of part of my job.”

Thomas frowned a little and then shook his head, brushing him off.

“Really, I'm fine, I just, it's probably a symptom from recovering from a severe concussion. It'll go away soon enough, I'm sure.”

“Tommy,” Newt forced Thomas's attention to him, “you were bloody experimented on. There are no 'I'm sure's' in experimentation.”

“If someone didn't know you as well as I did, they would actually think you cared about me,” Thomas avoided the confrontation.

“Stop being such a child! If there's an actual problem, it could effect the case-” Newt snapped, annoyed and frustrated to an extent that surprised himself. He took a breath and forced himself to calm down.

“It would effect just the case?” Thomas raised an eyebrow, grinning carelessly, seemingly unaffected by Newt's outburst.

“I'm calling the bloody doctor,” he replied curtly, leaving briskly.

“Hey Newt,” Thomas called when Newt was at the door. Newt sighed, and then turned to face him again.

“Why did you come, and not Teresa, or Minho?” Thomas asked, genuinely curious.

Newt opened his mouth, temporarily blanking at the worst possible moment. Thomas noticed, and widened his eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Stop it,” Newt barked, “Teresa was across town finalizing something for the case and Minho was doing cognitive interviews with the victim's families. Don't look that smug.”

“Mmhmm. Sure.”

“Fuck you.”

“That's the overall plan.”

“You're so absolutely  _ awful _ .” 

+++

After being checked out by a few of his colleagues, no one was able to figure out what was wrong with Thomas and just decided he should go home and rest. He was just dressing back into his street clothes when Teresa opened the door and gave him such a look of disappointment that he physically cowered.

“Why don't you ever listen to me?”

“Teresa-”

“No! Shut up! I'm taking you home and then you're fucking staying there, I am completely done with your bullshit Thomas, I can't do it, I just can't-”

“Teresa-”

“What did I just say?” Teresa hissed. Thomas blinked, actually afraid of his sister. “You have no idea do you? You have no idea how long I spent sleepless hours looking for you, and afterwards, how long I waited for you to wake up? How much I sobbed, shouted, cursed God for not taking me instead? What if something is seriously wrong with you? What if Maze seriously fucked something up in your head and you were going to die during your shift because you wouldn't listen to me? Because you're just so fucking reckless. Do you even know what that would do to me?! Because if you do, it's perfectly fucking obvious you don't give a shit about me!”

Thomas winced as her voice raised when she reached the end of her rant, making him feel infinitely guilty. Not one moment since he had woken up had he thought to ask how his twin was.

“I'm sorry, Teresa,” he whispered, feeling like an admonished child sitting there on the hospital bed, his legs swinging over the edge. “I am so, so sorry. I don't, I don't know what the would do to you because I can't even imagine what I would feel if I was in your place. And I'm just so sorry.”

Teresa glared, then deflated with a sigh. She approached him and wrapped her arms around him.

“I love you, you pathetic son-of-a-bitch.”

“I love you too, you greatest twin sister in the world, like wow, they're going to write legends about you-”

“Shut up Tom. We're leaving.”

“As you wish, your majesty,” he grinned cockily, standing up and only feeling a little dizzy. Teresa frowned disapprovingly before grabbing his jacket and other clothes which one of his employees had gotten from his locker for him.

“I'm still pissed, you dork. Don't push your luck,” she warned. Thomas hid a smile and mock saluted her and started walking, but didn't say anything. Teresa sighed again before following him. She didn't say anything when he slung an arm around her shoulders; she just tuck her head in and enjoyed it.

+++  
“I can always drive, you know,” Thomas yawned, complaining in the car for the umpteenth time when Teresa took the wrong turn again.

“Yeah, and risk the biggest collision in New York City since 1993, I don't think so,” Teresa answered firmly. “I can do this. We're nearly there.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” Thomas whined, “I don't even live that far from the hospital.”

“Shut up, you ungrateful brat.”

“Not until you let me drive.”

“Guess I'm going to need to invest in some earplugs.”

Thomas pouted. Then he pointed to a corner.

“Go through there and you'll get there faster.”

“Wow Tom, look at you finally giving your sister advice in a city she has never been in before, was that so hard?”

“I want a bed,” he murmured, curling up as best as he could on his side.

Teresa shook her head and made the turn.

After Teresa did get to Thomas's apartment building, she parked and turned off the engine.

“We're here Tommy,” she said, sighing with relief and turning to Thomas who was dozing.

“Don't call me that,” he mumbled, groaning as he got up.

“What? Why?” Teresa undid her seatbelt and reach back for her bag.

“Because Newt calls me that,” he replied so quietly as he rubbed his eyes that Teresa almost missed it.

Thomas froze as Teresa widened her eyes comically.

“Oh my god.”

“Teresa no, please, oh shit, fuck me.”

“ _ Oh my god.” _

“I'm getting out now, I swear to god, I'm leaving,” he announced as he got out of the car.

“ _ Newt? _ ”

Thomas winced visibly and looked around.

“Dammit, shush, get out come on, let's go.”

“Why don't you ever tell me anything?” Teresa vociferated as she got out of the car, locking it.

“We can talk about this when we're inside, I swear.”

“You like  _ Newt?  _ But he-”

“Hates me, I know.”

“Is practically married to his job,” Teresa finished when they reached Thomas' apartment. Thomas made a face.

“Although,” Teresa said thoughtfully as Thomas tried to get the door open, “getting a divorce in New York can't be too hard. Will you let me be maid-in-honor at your wedding?”

Thomas tripped and literally fell into his apartment.

“Teresa stop it,” Thomas pleaded.

“Thomas Isaacson-Greene. I admit, it does have a nice ring to it.”

“I hate  _ everything. I hate you the most.” _

“You can't say that to the sister you completely forgot about and was left completely shattered after you were kidnapped. My emotional state is compromised.”  
Thomas moaned from the ground.

Teresa crouched down so she would be level with him.

“Come on, we do have some work to do,” she grinned. “You having fun down here?”

“No.”

“You know who could probably give you some fun  _ down there-” _

“Oh my god,  _ I am throwing you out.  _ I want a reimbursement for a sister _.” _

“You owe me for like ten years Tom, you can't throw me out,” Teresa smirked, getting up again. She set her bag on the coffee table in the great room and stepped up to the kitchen. She started opening cherry cabinets.“We really do have work though. The NYPD needs your representation to provide them your support statement for the case.”

“Isn't it kind of obvious? I want to help them in anyway I can,” Thomas said, standing up and brushing off his jeans.

“Yeah, but the law needs it in writing. Or, at least Newt wants it in writing. He's really uptight about it. Makes you wonder if he's like that in-”

“Shut up. I'm not letting you finish that sentence.”

“I was just going to say in court,” Teresa smiled, blinking innocently. Thomas snorted.

“Oh, and also, Minho is coming in with tech squad to comb your apartment and to make sure that there aren't in rigs or bugs or stuff. He said to call when we got here,” Teresa called as Thomas walked to the bedroom.

“I'll do it right now,” he shouted, as he looked at his musty bedroom, dusty from weeks of no use.

“It's okay, I already did it, they're on their way,” Teresa replied behind him. He turned and she was leaning on the doorframe. He looked back at his room. He had missed it. There wasn't much in it because there wasn't much to Thomas but it was enough to call a home. He was sick of the hospital, something he never thought he would say.

“Seems kind of weird huh,” she said, “coming back here where it seems so normal when it's everything but that?”

“Yeah,” Thomas breathed. “You're staying here, right?”

Teresa blinked, unfolding her arms.

“I, uh, sort of assumed I would stay at the hotel for the case,” she admitted. She laughed sheepishly at Thomas's affronted look.

“What, are you serious? It's not like I don't have the room. What do you take me for, the sort of brother who would kick out family? Besides, I need you here.”

Teresa raised her eyebrows, but then nodded, smiling affectionately.

“I'll go to cancel my reservation when Minho comes. Then I'll go grocery shopping.”

Thomas nodded and then heard a knock. “Speaking of Minho.”

“I'll get it,” Teresa said, already walking through the hallway. She absentmindedly traced her fingers across the gray hallway walls, tweaking a decoration, and then went to open the door. Minho was leaning on the wall next to the door, with the tech squad behind him.

“My day just brightened from encountering a sudden beautiful specimen,” Minho flirted, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmph,” Teresa laughed, “try again. Come in.”

“And the gorgeous specimen invites me into her home! It just gets better and better,” Minho grinned, following her in. “my statistics show that nine of ten times, this usually ends in pleasure.”

“It's not her home,” Thomas cut in glaring at Minho, “so I guess it's that one out of ten exception.”

Minho chuckled as tech started setting up, and Teresa shot her brother a disappointed look.

“We'll just take fifteen minutes and then be out of your hair,” Minho assured them as he reached in to his back pocket to get a pair of gloves.

The next five seconds, Thomas wouldn't be able to recall very well. He remembered a sort of sense or trepidation when one of the techs knocked into a bookshelf, cursing and then stopping as he looked at. He remembered the tech blinking and then calling over Minho, who had took one long and shouted at them to get down.

Then his living room exploded.

+++


	10. Chapter 10

“I was in that apartment for the first time in weeks for five minutes,  _ five minutes. _ ” Thomas grumbled outraged as an EMT stuck a butterfly bandage on his arm, “then it explodes. This day has been absolutely horrible. It's like God has it out for me.”

“Hmm,” Newt nodded solemnly, looking at him intently with an impassive poker face. “You poor, disconsolate soul. I can't imagine the pain you're going through.”

Thomas had gotten the worst of the bomb damage, mostly because when Minho shouted at them to get down, Thomas didn't listen because he didn't know why and he never did anything unless he knew why. His head had blood seeping out of it, though the EMT had managed to clean it up and bandage it. No one had suffered broken bones, but Thomas had a lot of bruising around his face, arms, and ribs. Though, Newt thought slightly sadly, it was sometimes hard to tell which bruises and cuts had come from the explosion apart from the ones that had already been there. Newt blinked and looked back up at Thomas when he made a sound of annoyance, bring him back to the present.

“You're laughing at me!”

“Who, me?” Newt widened his eyes innocently, hiding a smirk. “I'm not laughing! Does this look like bloody laughing? Don't tell me you need your eyes checked too.”

“The past twenty-four hours have been hell. I didn't even know so many things could happen in one day. You could at least pretend to be professional and care about me.”

“I've found through observation,” Newt replied, “that you get into so much trouble that pitying you every time something bad happens just wastes too much time. So, technically, this is me being professional and efficient.”

“You're so rude,” Thomas frowned.

Newt rolled his eyes, and then checked his notepad.

“So, the bomb only activated when one of the techs found it. You didn't have any hint of it beforehand? There was nothing in the apartment that seemed off?”

“I was in the apartment for  _ five minutes-” _

“Okay,” Newt interrupted. “okay. I don't blame you, it's fine. I think I'm done. Stay here. I'm going to have an EMT get you to the hospital because-”

“What?” Thomas protested, “why? I'm fine, I even have a band-aid and everything!”

“You look absolutely awful. No offense. Also, the last time I saw you was from an undetermined head injury that caused you to black out,” Newt finished, “and I'm sure that as a doctor, you're perfectly aware of what can happen to the head after an explosion.”

Thomas glared but didn't argue, to Newt's relief. He patted him on the back and regretted it immediately when Thomas instinctively winced and shied away.

“Don't die before you get to the hospital,” Newt sighed before he turned to leave, “please.”

Thomas gave him another annoyed look but crossed his arms and he stayed where he was.

Newt passed along his instructions to the nearby EMT and turned to look for Minho. The entire apartment block was in chaos. Four or five ambulances from multiple hospitals had come to take the injured, which thankfully hadn't been too many. Police cruisers were littered across, blue, red and white lights blinking wildly and dancing on the buildings, as officers trying to get interviews from the victims and analyzing the crime scene to get a gist of the explosion.

Newt found Minho with another officer, who was documenting what he was saying.

“Minho. Greigor,” Newt greeted him, along with the officer. Minho flashed a grin and a salute.

“Boss! Was waiting for you to come by, was thinking that you pretty much forgot about me,” Minho replied cheekily. “I can't really think of anything else Greigor, sorry.”  
Greigor, understanding that that was his cue to leave, nodded and thanked him before turning to give Minho and Newt some privacy.

“Jesus, Minho,” Newt finally breathed when Greigor was out of earshot, “are you okay? Did you get checked out by an EMT?”

“I don't know about getting checked out by an EMT but I've been checking one out from NYU, do you think you can get his number-”

Minho was cut off when Newt punched him in the gut, probably a little harder than he meant to.

“Damn, Newt, I'm a fragile package, I was just in an explosion,” Minho coughed. “I'm fine, I promise, I'm fine, a medic took care of me before Greigor got me.”  
Newt glared at him through squinted eyes, trying to find a hint of a lie.

“You sure?” he asked curtly.

Minho nodded firmly, giving him a reassuring smile. Newt sighed, and then surprised Minho by suddenly hugging him. Hesitating for just a moment, Minho returned the gesture.

“It's like everyone is completely set to die on my watch,” Newt muttered bitterly when he pulled away. He moved next to Minho, leaning against the car. “If I could, frankly, I would take everyone in this fucked up city and lock them up in a closet so nothing can hurt them”

“Careful Newt,” Minho teased, “keep saying things like that and people might fall under the impression that you actually have a heart.”

Newt snorted and shook his head.

“So what happened?” Newt asked, crossing his arms against the cold.

Minho shrugged and looked out to the scene ahead of them. “I'm not even sure yet. The tech squad and I entered the apartment and started canvassing. We didn't even get that far; we had just started at the living room. One of the new kids, forgot who it was, I think it was probably Smithson, had knocked into a bookshelf and it was just, there. Right there in the open. I think it was a low-grade pipe bomb, with wireless interface connection, I'm not sure though, I took one look at that sucker and kissed the ground, shouting for everyone to do the same. Fucking hell, Newt, it was - there was a blinker that had turned on the second Smithson had found it. It wasn't activated until we came.”

Newt who had quietly been listen, took a deep breath and then let it out as what Minho was saying settled in.

“So they're still watching him.” There was no need to elaborate on the 'him'.

“And trying to get the highest police body count along with him. That's a complete change of signature for a terrorist group experimenting on the successful young and beautiful.”

Newt closed his eyes, and let his head fall back.

“Bloody hell,” he finally whispered, opening his eyes and staring at the sky, “what the fuck is Maze trying to do?”

+++

“Do you remember a time when you actually weren't grievously injured and when I was actually happy and carefree?”

Thomas rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I'm fine Teresa,” Thomas complained, “I'm not grievously injured I promise.

Teresa was sitting next to him in the ambulance. He had complained when the EMT had tried to get him to lay down on the gurney, saying that he could sit and that someone else should use it, but the EMT had given him such a disapproving glare that he had sulkily done as he had been told.

“I hate this, you know,” she continued anyway, “I left lovely, rainy Seattle and my law firm for this.”

“Well I'm not all pumped for Maze either,” he snapped back.

Teresa took a deep breath and looked down at him sadly, so sadly that any retort Thomas had at the ready disappeared.

“God, why won't they just leave you alone?” Teresa asked quietly and it hurt Thomas the way his strong sister sounded so defeated. He didn't talk for the rest of the trip to the hospital.

When they reached the hospital they had just left earlier, he groaned softly to himself when he realized Michaels was the doctor in charge of the Emergency Room.

“Damn Greene, what did you do this time?” he asked when he saw him, and Thomas tried not to get annoyed by his colleague's disbelieving and unimpressed tone of voice.

“Same old, same old,” he shrugged. The EMT finally let him sit up and stand on his own when they reached the bay and after requesting politely that they take him off the drip they had on him, they did so. Teresa went to clear up any paperwork as Michaels waved him over.

“Well, might as well check up on you if they made you come here after same old, same old.”

Thomas sighed and did as he was told, trying not to limp under his disapproving look. He sat on the white bed as Michaels brought a clipboard and a pen. Systematically, he accounted for each of Thomas's injuries, asking him to flex and bend to check his muscles and joints, checking his ears and flashing a light into his eyes.

“I want to take a CT scan of your head before I announce you clear,” Michaels finally said after turning off the little flashlight and taking note of the 'normal dilation'. “It's just that you've gone through a lot and there might be something hidden that's turned up.”

Thomas shrugged. “You don't have to explain to me, I get it.”

Michaels nodded and stepped away to make sure the scanner was free and Thomas sighed, looking up at the ceiling as he waited.

+++

“They're done Thomas, you can get up now,” Michaels shouted from the tiny office with the x-ray controls. Thomas moved the x-ray machine away from his head and groaned a little as he sat up, a little bit of pain twinging at is side. It was strange to him because his unnaturally high pain tolerance made sure he rarely ever noticed pain. Michaels was waiting for the x-rays to develop and when he had them, walked over to the light board. Thomas waited, deciding that moving at the moment wasn't worth the effort.

Michaels paused, staring at the CT scan pictures. After a moment, he took it out, held it up to the roof light and then stuck it back onto the light board. He glanced back at Thomas strangely and then at the pictures.

“What?” Thomas asked, looking over at him.

Michaels furrowed his eyebrows and blinked back up to Thomas.

“I'm going to order an MRI and a EEG. I need to see your brain.”

His blood chilled and suddenly everything Teresa, Newt, and everyone else was worrying about seemed all too real.

“What is it?” Thomas asked again urgently.

“Something's not right,” Michaels answered simply and then turned to leave with the pictures.

Thomas moved, slipping out of the bed and reaching for him.

“What the fuck do you mean something's not right?” Thomas snapped, “give me my scans Grant.”

Michaels hesitated for a moment, before handing them to Thomas and waiting to let him look at them for himself. Not minding his limp now, he went to the light table and put up the pictures again. At first, they seemed fine. The blood-lining was fine, ever after all the trauma his head had gone through, and his gray matter was all the same tone.

“There's nothing wrong with them Michaels-” Thomas started but then stopped himself when he stared. Slowly, he reached up to touch the area that wasn't right, not caring if he smudged them.

“What the fuck,” he whispered quietly.

His hemispheres weren't... hemispheres. They were merged, connected with a slim solid bridge of brain tissue that didn't stand out at first because it was normal brain tissue and exactly like the rest of his brain.

“I'm ordering an MRI,” Michaels said again after Thomas fell silent, “then I'm going to report the change to the FBI-”

“No!” Thomas's head snapped back to Michaels. “Don't.”

“Thomas, you have to tell them. It's important for them to know what they did to you.”

“I know,” Thomas agreed hastily, “And I will, I'll tell them, but I need to, I need to do some research first. Figure out what this means. Like shouldn't I be completely otherworldly right now? Completely tripped out and connected to the sixth dimension? Or dead? This is something that's completely new and it would help a lot more if I figured out exactly what they did and how it affected me. And it's interesting, right? I had an MRI literally less than forty-eight hours ago and nothing was wrong with it. This is huge.” 

Michaels waited, shifting on his feet as he let what Thomas said settle and Thomas knew he had him. Because before being model citizens, the doctors he knew were scientists. He tried not to think about how morally corrupt that might be or how morally similar they were to Maze in that way.

“Telling them will hinder me from researching this more. They'll keep me under observation and will no doubt keep me from doing tests. You know it Grant,” Thomas continued to soften the pot even more, “I can't figure this out unless you help me out here.”

“You won't mention my name?” he asked finally. Thomas shook his head. Michaels sighed.

“Fine,” he agreed, “but for a short while, like less than a month. Research it for less than a month and then you have to tell the FBI.” Thomas nodded and then Michaels motioned towards the door.

“You can request your own MRI later then,” Michaels said, “and you can do whatever you do keep things off the record and I'll pretend I don't know you keep things off the record.”

“So?” Teresa asked when the two of them reached the waiting room. She set aside the magazine she was reading and stood up, waiting for Michael's report. Thomas went to stand next to Teresa and gave Michaels a blank look when they met each other's eye. There was a moment of acceptance before Michael turned quickly back to Teresa, giving her a trademark reassuring doctor's smile.

“Everything's fine,” he lied and Thomas relaxed.

+++


	11. Chapter 11

    Newt was tired. After the ambulances had left, he went with the forensics back into Thomas's apartment to assess the damage. He was determined to scavenge the wreckage for any clues to see what happened and how they hadn't been prepared for it, no matter how long it would take.

   That was three hours ago, at five in the morning.

   Now, when a few beams of real sunlight streamed through the wide glass of the apartment's balcony doors, Newt sighed, snapping off his forensic latex gloves and rubbing his eyes with a sweaty hand.

   “You're free to go, the next team will be here in a few minutes,” he announced and he smiled grimly at the groans of relief.

   “Thanks Agent Isaacson,” one of the younger forensics scientists said before she passed. Newt nodded and waited as each of the team filed out one by one until he was alone in the apartment again.

   It was remarkably different from when he had last come. The neat, modern furniture was split and broken; the black sleek couch was in half, stuffing falling out of it like a sad teddy bear. The kitchen, where the blast had been closet to was of just granite and cherry wood remnants, all completely shattered. The ground and walls were charred black. The team had salvaged the bomb as best they could, and had found most of all the pieces. In fact, the scene was probably one of their most put together bomb sites, with minimal damage and no fatalities. Still, a feeling of remorse settled in Newt as he realized that this was Thomas Greene's apartment, or whatever was left of it's living room, and he had nearly died in it. At this rate, Newt thought solemnly, the bastard'll never get a break.

   He was just going over the bagged evidence, mentally going through the known black market sellers who sold the certain type of material when the next fresh team of forensics came in, probably to just take the evidence away, finish screening, and keep watch for the time being so the media wasn't let it. Though the media was a lost cause, Newt thought, every resident of the apartment building's probably already sold their statement.

   “God, Newt, you're still here?” was the first thing Alby asked. Newt had barely noticed him, and tried to ignore the worried tone.

   “Yeah,” Newt mumbled, blinking a little, “have you got coffee or something?”

   “No,” Alby frowned, “I've got something better. You're going home Newt.”

   “Alby-”

   “Shut up.”

Newt glared, ready to argue, but decided it wouldn't be worth it. He snapped off his gloves, and stuffed them in his back pocket so he could throw them away later.

   “Fine,” he muttered, starting to walk past Alby. Alby stopped him by grabbing his shoulder and making him look him in the eye.

   “Home, Newt,” Alby warned, “I'm serious. I know you're tired because you actually didn't argue with me. Don't even think about coming in later today.”

Newt rolled his eyes and easily shrugged off Alby's hand. “Alright, alright, mother.”

   Alby watched him leave and shouted back at him one last time, “Home!” and Newt flipped him the bird behind his back, ignoring the forensic team gaping at him for the gesture. Alby sighed, and rubbed his forehead, already frustrated.

   “Let's get to work,” he muttered to an assistant nearby, waiting for instructions.

+++

   Newt didn't intend to go home; he had actually wanted to just drive back to the police station, after finding the nearest, darkest, coffee available, but then he saw his reflection in the glass window of the coffee shop he was just about to enter and sighed. No one was going to let him work if he looked like the mess he was. The drive to his apartment was shorter than he thought it would be, and the trek up the stairs to his third-floor loft was a blur. Somehow he unlocked the front door and fell into his living room. Blinking, trying to keep himself awake, he groaned softly at the mess his apartment was and regretted not cleaning up the last time he had come back. He shrugged off his laptop bag in the vague area of the couch and trudged to the bathroom in the master bedroom. Pulling off his shirt, he turned on the light to the bathroom and observed the stranger in the mirror.

   He stared at his reflection in the mirror, squinting at it for the first time in about a week or so since Thomas woke up. There were already darker, more pronounced circles under his eyes, and his skin seemed pale and stretched. Faintly, he noted his last actual full meal had been about a week and a half ago. With a jolt, he realized that he recognized the beginning signs of the obsession, overworking, and the inability to self-preserve in the middle of a case. It was the beginnings of the Donner Party Case.

    He closed his eyes and groaned again at the horrific effort needed to keep himself alive, then leaned back from the sink counter. He reached across the bathroom and turned on the shower. Might as well start getting his life together now. While he waited for the water to heat up, he went back to his room and unceremoniously shoved some of the dirty clothing lying on the floor into the hamper, seeing that he had been too rushed last time to do it. He hated messes, but he rarely had time to clean up after himself. It was sort of ironic, really.  Newt Isaacson, best known for cleaning up the streets but never bothered to stuff a couple of old pizza boxes into a trash bag. When he knew the shower was warm, he slipped inside, feeling tension suddenly leaving with the water pressure on his back. The realization that it was his first warm shower in two weeks came and flew out of his head. 

   After his shower, he dared venture back into his living room to get to his kitchen. His apartment really was a mess. Checking his fridge, he wrinkled his nose but took out the only slightly moldy bread and jam, since he hadn't bothered to go grocery shopping either. Why did adulthood have to be so hard? While the thankfully still-functioning toaster and coffee machine were working their magic, he worked through a few dishes,  multi-tasking by rinsing with one hand and going through the reports about the bomb that the station had sent to him with the other . Taking a short break to eat the few bites of food, he went to his bag to pull out his files and put them on the kitchen bar before turning and sighing at the amount of litter in his home that would deter him from actually concentrating. He grabbed a trash bag and methodically cleaned up the worst of the mess, leaving the vacuuming and dusting for later. On an off note, he opened a window so some air would come in, making the inside considerably cooler but at least it didn't smell like stale takeout. 

   Deeming the apartment habitable for the moment, he settled on one of the bar stools and opened the file, starting his first cup of coffee. Nine pictures of the victims, including Thomas, were on top; eight of them were from the morgue and one of them was of Thomas after he was found. Newt tried not to think about the darker bruises around Thomas's neck and the left side of his face, and spread out the basic photographic evidence onto the granite. The pictures were in chronological order of time of deaths, Andrew Yen, Caroline Lockett, Jamal Guvapta, Adina Aslan, Talma Hunt, Emery Brandt, Julien Sai, Grant Hall, and then Thomas. He looked at his makeshift timeline, and then pulled out the missing person reports. Using the given last seen times and the times they had missed an appointment, he created another timeline underneath the pictures, this time in the order of Greene, Guvapta, Aslan, Brandt, Yen, Hunt, Lockett, Hall, and then Sai. Newt bit his lip, trying to figure out what seemed off. The order in which they had been kidnapped didn't correspond with the order of deaths or their discovery. So what? It's perfectly likely the loved one who filed the missing person report was just late or the victim had missed an appointment for an entirely different reason. It happened with Greene.

   Greene. Newt knew that Thomas's role in the whole setup was the key to everything. They had given Greene back. There had to be a reason why. Something about the victims made one preferable over another as a test subject.

Frowning, Newt pulled out some of his old notes for victimology, back when the team was still trying to find Greene.

   Yen had been a successful business entrepreneur from Missouri, who came from a humble background. He graduated Mizzou with honors but not much else before moving to New York to single-handedly form his own business. Lockett was a professor, well-liked at Princeton, who came from graduating out of her local state college with high marks and amiable deposition. She apparently got the job, Newt noted, because of her intensity for advanced education, something that she proved in her career.

   Sai, however, was what the age called a technological wizard. He created multiple prototypes for new interface designs after dropping out of CalTech, declaring he didn't need stuffy pricks telling him what he could and couldn't do. Hall, likewise, was a certified genius and a JPL associate; however, he wasn't an employee due to “terrible team interaction in an environment that excels with proper communication”. He had graduated out of MIT at 22 and was visiting for a conference when he was taken.

   For the next few hours, Newt continued reading their backgrounds when he realized slowly what the gradient between Yen and Hall, the final fatal victim, was. Maze had initially started testing on the victims who they had thought had the most well rounded brains - socially-apt and successful. Then, starting with Aslan, a teenage-prodigy-turned-internationally-famous-mathematician, they noticed whatever they were testing for worked better with victims who weren't socially-apt, but were the most intelligent of their generation.

   “So where does that put Greene,” Newt murmured, rubbing his temple. Thomas had been tested last, for whatever personal reason. (Wicked? Something with Wicked? Something in their family's past) Then, Thomas had changed Maze's mind and made them stop testing. Something was so wrong.

   His phone beeped suddenly, notifying him he had a message from one of the members of his team on their group chat.

_Are you in bed yet? I bet you aren't, you fucking workaholic. Go sleep. Like now. - Gally 10:21 PM_

_Please? - Sonya 10:22 PM_

   Newt looked up, bemused when he realized he had worked literally through the afternoon and then sunset. The sunlight had stopped streaming through the dusty air in front of the windows and when Newt's subconscious had noticed, he had turned on a light without knowing why. Sighing, he used his phone to take a few snaps of the set up in front of him and finished the last of his notes, though he still felt like he could keep going. Yet, he still put everything away, deciding he could go out to eat the next morning instead of trying to find some other slightly edible item in his fridge or cupboards. He locked up his files in a safe under a table in the living room as usual, and then promptly got ready for bed, knowing the chirps on his phone wouldn't shut up until he was under the covers and at least attempting to get rest. He was never sure how the team knew when he was sleeping and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know. He wouldn't hold it against them if they had somehow found a way to bug his apartment to check up on him.

Around 11 pm, Newt sent a final brisk and slightly annoyed text to the group and turned out the light, letting himself succumb to a fitful attempt to sleep despite his ghosts.

+++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, what is this??? I'm so sorry for dropping off the face of Earth?? And for this horribly boring chapter??? Cringes, I haven't even gotten to the Newtmas yet, I'm so problematic. Hopefully I'll be publishing more often :( Please leave your kudos and comments, yeah? They really do motivate me, even if I never reply :) :(  
> -Sami

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt of a crime/detective au, a lot of the plot gets pretty confusing, so feel free to comment any questions. Also I s-w-e-a-r there's romance (and smut, eventually, maybe, who knows) I just :( I'm pretty bad at updating, sorry I try, but I still hope you like it! Leave kudos and comments, they make my week, thanks!  
> -Sami


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